BILL   BORAM 


ROBERT    NORWOOD 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3MD 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FYND 


BILL    BORAM 


ROBERT  NORWOOD 


By  ROBERT  NORWOOD 

BILL    BORAM 

THE    MAN    OF    KERIOTH 

THE    MODERNISTS 

THE    PIPER    AND    THE    REED 

THE    WITCH    OF    ENDOR 

HIS   LADY   OF   THE   SONNETS 


BILL     BORAM 


BY 
ROBERT  NORWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MAN  OF  KERIOTH,"  "THE  MODEBN- 


WITH   A    FOREWORD  BY 
GRACE  BLACKBURN 


NEW  XJBir  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 
BY  GEOftGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
MY    DEAR    FRIEND 

SKIPPER  BILL 

WHOSE    TRANSFIGURATION 
LED   ME  TO   THIS   POEM 


V 
&', 

Ol2 

Ac- 


FOREWORD 

In  this  strong  and  curiously  beautiful  poem,  "Bill 
Boram,"  with  its  rush  of  tidal  waters  and  its  welter  of 
elemental  human  passions,  Mr.  Norwood,  it  seems  to 
my  mind,  has  sought  to  epitomize  the  evolution  of  the 
spiritual  universe,  much  as  the  writers  of  Holy  Writ 
epitomize  the  evolution  of  the  physical  universe  in  that 
glorious  choric  outburst  which  we  call  the  first  chapter 
of  the  Book  of  Genesis. 

What  matters  it  if  the  stage  of  the  latter  conflict, 
in  place  of  embracing  as  does  the  former,  the  round 
world,  the  overhanging  stars,  all  visible  creation,  is 
confined  to  the  adventure  in  development  of  a  single 
human  soul?  Dare  we,  indeed,  employ  the  term  "con 
fined"  to  that  which  no  man  yet  has  ever  found  con- 
finable  ;  or  is  there  aught  to  do  with  "great"  or  "small" 
in  the  realm  of  that  which  can  neither  be  seen  nor 
handled?  "That  was  not  first  which  is  spiritual  but 
that  which  is  natural;  and  afterwards  that  which  is 
spiritual"  ...  all  things,  no  matter  how  gross  their 
seeming,  tend  at  the  last  to  "spiritual  results."  The 
poet  has  warranty  for  his  philosophy  not  in  Scripture 
alone  but  in  the  conclusions  of  the  choicest  and  the 

vii 


most  chosen  of  the  race.  For  not  only  is  it  asked  by 
the  prophets  what  that  is  which  man  shall  give  "in 
exchange"  for  the  soul,  but  it  is  demanded  of  man  how 
and  in  what  manner  he  shall  weigh  or  measure  that 
which  when  put  into  the  balances  with  the  "whole 
world"  shows  the  world,  by  comparison,  to  be  as  light 
as  a  moulted  feather. 

The  physical  universe  with  all  its  modifications  from 
star-dust  to  organic  life,  we  assume,  had  its  birth  amid 
convulsions  of  titanic  forces  poetically  termed  "Chaos 
and  old  Night,"  and  that  at  a  period  of  time  so  re 
mote  the  contemplation  of  it  staggers  the  intellect. 
That  universe  would  now  seem  to  be  perfected,  in  cer 
tain  details  decadent ;  though  with  regard  to  both  sup 
positions  the  wisest  of  our  scientists  consent  to  hold 
but  a  tentative  opinion. 

The  spiritual  universe  so  far  at  least  as  it  apper 
tains  to  this  planet,  we  believe  to  have  had  its  incep 
tion  at  that  stupendous  moment  when  physical  man 
first  achieved  an  "inward  eye,"  became  conscious  not 
alone  of  the  earth  as  an  environmental  fact  but  of 
himself  as  a  thinking  and  an  aspiring  entity,  an  en 
tity  curious  and  critical  in  regard  to  himself  as  also 
to  the  source  and  origin  of  himself  .  ,  .  God, 

This  spiritual  beginning,  we  argue,  took  place  at  a 
period  comparatively  modern — this  side  a  million  years 
—while  its  perfectability  presupposes  the  throes  of  an 
infinity.  Is  it  too  much,  then,  logically  to  reason  that 
just  as  the  physical  universe  rose  amid  a  struggle  of 
colossal  material  forces,  so  the  spiritual  universe,  in 

viii 


the  dawn  of  whose  day  we  now  dwell,  is  coming  into 
being  amid  "groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered"? 

Our  vision  of  the  conflict  in  which  humanity  is 
immersed  is  myopic,  we  suffer  a  false  perspective,  we 
see  men  as  trees  walking  and  call  their  intentions  and 
actions  by  uncouth  and  unphilosophic  names. 

Thus  that  which  we  term  "sin,"  it  is  possible,  may 
be  but  physical  instinct  raised  to  the  plane  where,  by 
right,  spiritual  understanding  should  prevail. 

The  two  great  instincts  of  the  animal  kingdom,  it 
will  be  allowed,  are  the  instincts  of  stomach  hunger 
and  of  generative  hunger.  Both  these  instincts,  whether 
of  physical  man  or  of  the  beasts,  are  the  outcome  of 
and  are  justified  by  the  analogous  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  by  means  of  which  Nature  not  only  pro 
tects  the  individual  but  by  which  she  maintains  the 
race. 

In  their  proper  kingdom  stomach  hunger  and  gen 
erative  hunger  have  the  primal  blessing.  .  .  .  God  saw 
them  and  pronounced  them  "good."  Transfer  these 
two  hungers  from  the  physical  plane  to  the  intellectual 
plane,  however,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  they  become 
the  impulse  of  innumerable  evils  and  sub-evils,  which 
we  call  "sins."  Simplicity  has  here  become  complexity. 
The  obvious  has  now  passed  over  into  the  involved. 
Matter  has  acquired  the  wings  of  mentality.  Result: 
Not  a  lust,  not  a  hatred,  not  a  greed,  not  an  obsession, 
but  may  be  traced  to  those  two  originally  innocent 
and  constructive  instinctive  forces — forces  which  hav 
ing  added  to  them  the  efficiency  of  the  intellect  and  the 

ix 


enthusiasm  of  the  imagination  have  enlarged  their  jur 
isdiction  so  as  to  pervade  all  consciousness. 

Thus  stomach  hunger  developed  along  the  intellec 
tual,  becomes  that  infinitely  subtle  and  deceiving  bias, 
personal  ambition — a  mental  appetite  such  as  is  seen 
in  Macbeth — an  acquisitive  rapacity  such  as  that  evi 
denced  by  Wilhelm  Hohenzollern — ambition  which  when 
once  given  its  head  is  not  to  be  soothed  nor  satisfied, 
no,  not  by  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  nor  the  glory 
of  them. 

Nor  are  history  and  experience  silent  as  to  the 
effect  produced  upon  human  character  and  conduct  in 
cases  where  generative  hunger  is  transferred  from  the 
physical  to  the  mental  side  of  being.  The  great  sadists 
and  sensualists  whose  careers  darken  the  pages  of  the 
race's  story  have  oftentimes  been  men  and  women  of 
brilliant  intellect  .  .  .  their  "worm"  died  not  because 
it  fed  not  upon  mortal  but  upon  immortal  emotions. 

These  are  but  the  peak  waves  in  that  stupendous 
spiritual  chaos  across  the  face  of  which  the  Spirit  of 
God  is  moving  to  the  end  that  there  shall  be  "Light." 
The  deep  beneath  the  darkness  is  the  Soul  .  .  .  the 
firmament  with  its  stars  is  the  Soul  .  .  .  the  earth  and 
all  that  is  therein  is  the  Soul  ...  a  new  universe 
slowly  but  surely  evolving. 

And  if  our  poet  chooses  as  the  text  of  his  discourse 
not  the  grandiose  universal  Soul,  but  the  soul  of  the 
simple  fisherman,  Bill  Boram,  that  is  because  Bill 
Boram  is  important  to  the  scheme  of  things,  a  seg 
ment  of  the  All-Whole  and  the  All-Holy,  whose  final 

x 


destiny  it  is  to  be  made  in  the  "image  and  likeness" 
of  that  God  of  whom  Jesus  said  that  He  is  "Spirit" 
.  .  .  and  who,  thus,  could  design  for  Himself  none  but 
a  spiritual  counterpart.  .  .  . 

Like  Bill's   "tubers"  humanity  is   "planted  deep." 
And  again  like  them,  it — 

"tunnels 

Up'ards  to  meet  the  light,  sartin  that  some 
Place  waits  for  it.  .  .  ." 

GRACE  BLACKBURN. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  STORY 

TOM  BLAYLOCK — 

The  Parson's  son  and  mate  of  the  Flying  Scud 
— a  whaler  caught  in  the  Arctic  ice.  Tom  writes 
this  story  of  Bill  Boram  to  escape  the  monotony 
of  the  long  Northern  night,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  clarify  his  thinking  on  "those  things  which  per 
tain  to  the  Kingdom  of  God." 

BILL  BORAM — 

Captain  of  the  Lottie  S.  Bill's  points  of  con 
tact  with  the  Infinite  are:  His  love  of  flowers  and 
all  things  that  are  physically  beautiful;  some 
gratitude  and  feeling  of  fellowship  for  George 
Conrad;  a  deep  respect  for  Bobby  Fox. 

THE  LOTTIE  S. — 

Whose  spars  "a-tap'rin  up'ard"  told  Bill  a 
"sight  more'n  most  o'  men"  could  tell. 

PARSON  BLAYLOCK — 

A  strong  man  with  a  frozen  soul,  whose  ethical 
sense  has  overpowered  that  charity  without  which 
righteousness  becomes  as  the  sound  of  a  smitten 
gong. 

KATE  COOLIN — 

A  type  of  that  lure  of  sex  which  damns  because 
it  is  possessive. 

GEORGE  CONRAD — 

The  Lottie's  cook  and  Bill's  loyal  henchman. 
George  is  the  type  of  that  Love  which  overcomes 

xiii 


.\tfce,  .world  »  cWid  *  give*  its  ^possessor  the  key  to  the 
God..:  >\  ^ 


BOBBY  Fox  — 

The  sage  of  The  Cove.  He  is  one  of  those  men 
one  occasionally  meets  among  humble  folk,  a 
thinker,  a  student,  and  very  wise.  We  know  him 
well  and  thank  God  for  his  kind. 

THE  SHE  WEASEL  — 

Her  type  belongs  to  every  community  and  rep 
resents  the  only  personal  devil  it  has  been  our  mis 
fortune  to  know,  if  malice  is  the  only  sin  and  we 
think  that  it  is. 

SAM  PUBLICOVER  — 

Rough,  uncouth,  and  yet  with  a  feeling  for 
beauty  that  makes  his  homely  speech  melodious 
with  a  poet's  gift  of  phrase.  Sam  is  the  local 
blacksmith  wyhose  forge  is  a  frequent  resort  for  the 
crew  of  the  Lottie  S.  He  is  the  She  Weasel's 
brother,  but  here  all  kinship  enr's. 

JOHNNY  DEAL  — 

A  blind  fiddler.  Johnny,  in  Sam  Publicover's 
opinion,  surpasses  Shakespeare  who  wrote  blank 
verse  mainly  because  "he  couldn't  keep  de  jig." 
We  do  not  agree  with  Sam's  opinion  of  Shakespeare 
—  Mr.  George  Bernard  Shaw  to  the  contrary. 

ORAM  HILTZ  — 

Mate  of  the  Lottie  S.  Oram,  like  most  of  us, 
has  moments  of  illumination,  but  is  mainly  baffled 
by  the  mystery  of  Bill's  adventure  into  the  Infinite 
through  his  love  of  beauty. 

The  Cov'ers,  the  crew  of  the  Lottie  S.,  Molly  —  Bill's 
cow,  flowers,  birds,  and  the  Spirit  Who  clothes  Himself 
in  the  "Light  of  setting  suns." 


xiv 


PART  ONE 

"I  think  that  those  who  have  an  imaginative  cornet 
in  their  hearts  are  better  than  those  who  have  not. 
They  have  a  shrine — to  a  shrine  we  bring  our  aspira 
tions  ;  there  they  accumulate  and  secretly  influence  our 
lives." 

— Richard  Jeffries. 


BILL  BORAM 


PART  ONE 

Bill  Boram  was  the  bad  man  of  The  Cove 
And  skipper  of  the  schooner  Lottie  S. — 
A  green-hulled  cranky  craft  as  ever  drove 
Her  bowsprit  into  sea  foam.     I  confess 
Bill  had  no  beauty,  no  redeeming  grace 
Of  manner.     He  was  almost  always  full. 
In  stature  Bill  was  short  and  thick.    His  face 
Was  not  unlike  old  Aaron  Conrad's  bull — 
The  ugliest  and  the  meanest  brute  I  know — 
A  tangle  of  red  hair  above  two  eyes 
Like  balls  of  polished  bronze  that  seemed  to  glow 
With  hot  hell-fire.     Bill's  tongue  was  very  wise 
In  all  the  art  of  antique  blasphemy ; 
Art  that  was  old  ere  out  of  towered  Tyre 
Great  merchant  triremes  pushed  their  prows  to  sea. 
Bill  often  boasted,  "Cuss?     I  c'n  cuss  higher 
Than  pa'son  Blaylock  aims  to  p'int  a  prayer. 
Cuss?    I  c'n  cuss  the  devil  out  o'  hell!" 
Bill's  whiskers  were  a  fiery  fringe  of  hair 
17 


That  fr/?m:fejs*  jutting  jaws  and  square  chin  fell 
In  curling  fury  half-way  down  his  breast. 

Yet  there  was  virtue  in  the  strength  he  had, 
And  cunning,  too,  that  made  him  first  and  best 
Of  fishers  from  The  Cove,  though  he  was  bad. 
The  Lottie  S.  was  always  sure  to  trip 
Her  anchor  ere  her  sisters  made  for  port, 
With  Bill  blaspheming,  "May  God  damn  this  ship 
An'  every  bastard  sailor,  if  we's  short 
O'  half  a  quintal  o'  the  'customed  catch 
When  we  discharges  cargo  at  The  Belle.  .  .  . 
Tarp'lins  there,  you  lubbers,  on  the  hatch.  .  .  . 
Tops'ls.  .  .  .  Now  let  her  drive  to  home  or  hell!" 

The  Cove  lies  partly  landlocked  from  the  sea. 
Its  arms  enclose  a  huddle  of  white  homes 
Red-roofed  above  its  shacks  and  wharves.     To  me, 
Who  have  grown  weary  of  old  temple  domes 
And  minster  spires,  of  castles,  gates  and  walls, 
Earth  has  no  beauty  like  those  roofs  of  red 
Against  the  dark  green  spruce  when  twilight  falls 
Upon  The  Cove.    An  island  lifts  its  head 
Midway  between  the  shores  that  curve  to  form 
A  nearly  oval  harbor — quarter-mile 
At  widest  point — where,  safe  from  any  storm, 
A  score  of  schooners,  in  the  noisy  while 
Of  their  unloading  cargoes  of  the  catch, 
Tug  at  their  anchors.     Where  the  deep  Cove  ends 
In  shoals  of  cobble  stones — worn  till  they  match—- 

18 


A  brown  brook  shallows,  deepens,  narrows,  bends 

Tumultuous  among  the  alders,  till, 

Far  back,  it  turns  the  wheel  that  grinds  the  grist 

In  Cyrus  Jodrey's  hopper.     On  the  hill 

A  steeple  lifts  the  brave  appeal  of  Christ. 

"The  Cov'ers,"  as  they  always  have  been  called, 

Are  bred  of  Dutch  and  Anglo-Saxon  stock. 

The  women  go  short-kirtled  and  red-shawled, 

Clicking  their  needles  on  a  gray  wool  sock 

To  time  their  talking.     They  can  bake,  weave,  hem, 

Bear  husky  babies  to  the  lads  they  love, 

Minding  their  business  as  the  men  mind  them : 

There  are  no  suffrage  squabbles  at  The  Cove. 

The  men  are  short,  broad-shouldered  as  a  kedge, 

With  diapason  voices  of  the  sea 

That  breaks  in  throated  thunder  on  the  ledge 

Near  Dorey's  Light.     Rough-humored  blasphemy 

Cuts  through  their  talk,  like  sudden  saw-toothed  reefs 

At  ebb  of  tide  below  the  Scander  Shoals. 

Poor  Parson  Blaylock  said  they  had  beliefs 
So  pagan  that  he  wondered  how  their  souls 
Could  get  to  heaven ;  for  he  was  of  that  creed 
Which  limits  God  and  grace  to  legal  quarts 
Or  gallons ;  held  man  is  not  saved  by  deed, 
But  by  acceptance  of  the  longs  and  shorts 
In  Hebrew  written  by  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Committed  to  the  Church ;  that  he  is  bound 

19 


To  burn  in  hell  forever  with  the  lost 
Who  has  not  by  his  faith  salvation  found. 

Where  Scander  Bay  turns  in  to  meet  The  Cove, 
And  where  the  road  runs  down  to  Dorey's  Head, 
Bill's  house  stands.     Though  he  liked  to  rant  and  rove 
With  rum  and  cronies,  it  was  often  said, 
"Bill  at  his  best  is  when  Bill's  at  his  home." 
Good  reason  why ;  for  deep  in  his  bad  heart 
There  lived  a  love  for  one  black  patch  of  loam 
That  was  his  garden.    Bill  was  first  to  start 
His  hoeing,  first  to  plant,  before  he  sailed 
Off  in  the  green-hulled  schooner  Lottie  S. 

On  certain  noons  when  black  North-easters  flailed 
The  Grand  Banks  like  a  floor,  and  the  duress 
Of  flailing  made  the  sea  a  field  of  foam, 
Bill  thought  of  daisies  down  behind  the  barn, 
And  Molly  tinkling  up  the  cow-path  home. 

Yes,  home  was  sweet  to  Bill,  and  he  would  yarn 
O'  nights  above  the  bottle  with  his  mate 
About  old  Molly :    "That  God-blasted  cow 
Knows  more'n  most  o'  the  crew;  airly  or  late, 
She  schemes  an'  plans.  .  .  .  Oram,  I  wonders  how 
The  corn  is  growin'.  .  .   .  They's  a  patch  of  blue 
Hard  by  the  fence,  below  the  granite  rock 
Bill  Dorey  blasted,  delercate  as  dew; 
They  come  as  reg'lar  as  the  schooner's  clock, 
The  little  fellers,  all  deep  blue,  as  if 
A'mighty  God  splashed  it  out  o'  the  pot 

20 


He  paints  the  sky.  .  .  .  Damnation !    When  a  whiff 
O'  bilge  comes  up  the  foVsle  stinkin'  hot, 
I  thinks  o'  flowers  like  a  soul  in  hell !" 

Below  Bill's  house  a  wharf  and  fish-house  stand, 
And  underneath  the  gable  scrawled:     "The  Belle 
Mahone" — after  the  song,  I  think.     A  band 
Of  red  borders  a  brown  wide-running  door 
That  opens  on  the  wharf — a  wilderness 
Of  extra  spars,  rope,  riggings,  codlines  for 
The  cranky  green-hulled  schooner  Lottie  S. 

A  fish-house  at  its  best's  a  fearsome  thing1 — 
All  smells  and  slop  of  ancient  oily  brine 
With  bulk  of  barrels  for  the  seasoning 
Of  green  cod.     'Tis  no  cellar  rich  with  wine 
That  mellows  for  the  goblet.    'Tis  a  place 
For  nastiness  of  evil  ways  and  words, 
When  men  are  drunk  and  on  them  the  disgrace 
Of  our  ancestral  beasthood  falls  like  birds 
Of  carrion,  squawking  as  their  razor  beaks 
Tear  at  dead  eyes ;  for  eyes  are  dead  that  fail 
To  look  on  beauty  with  that  awe  which  seeks 
Truth  in  earth's  loveliness  that  must  prevail. 
This  have  I  learned  since  first  I  saw  the  sun : 
Man's  soul  needs  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
For  its  high  purpose ;  ugly  odors  run 
Cross  current  to  the  soul's  experience, 
With  ugly  sights  and  sounds,  rank  memories 
Of  olden  griefs  from  which  the  body  rose 

21 


Uplifted  by  the  soul.     How  hard  to  please 

The  God  within  the  flesh,  the  God  who  knows 

That  dissonance  is  evil,  be  it  sight 

Or  sound  or  smell,  evil  and  therefore  fraught 

With  anguish  to  the  soul  whose  one  delight 

Is  harmony.     In  hell  the  damned  are  caught, 

Not  by  that  beauty  which  the  priests  have  banned, 

But  by  that  ugliness  wMch  walks  abroad 

Through  earth's  far  loveliness,  holding  command 

On  every  one  who  has  insulted  God 

Who  made  things  good. 

The  fish-house,  Belle  Mahone, 

Was  long  and  wide  and  high.     Its  westward  gable 
Had  one  round  window  like  an  eye  that  shone 
Out  on  The  Cove.    A  low  deal  gutting  table 
Stood  left  beside  the  door  and  near  the  post 
That  held  the  Lottie's  bow  when  she  warped  in, 
Discharging  cargo  at  the  wharf.     Bill's  boast, 
"Hell  meets  wit'  welcome  when  I  feels  for  sin," 
Was  symboled  by  the  fish-house  Belle  Mahone; 
For  in  the  great  loft  low  above  the  barrels 
Bill  entertained  his  friends.     Was  it  not  known 
That  gambling  bouts  with  rum  and  bloody  quarrels 
Marked  many  nights  of  Bill's  return  from  sea? 
Worse  things  are  also  said  of  what  took  place 
Sometimes  within  the  loft,  things  that  must  be 
Passed  by  with  veiled  or  with  averted  face. 
And  so  the  ugly  odors  and  the  sight 
Between  the  barrels  seemed  a  sacrament 

22 


Of  sin,  a  sign  to  signify  the  blight 
Upon  Bill  Boram. 

Parson  Blaylock  spent 
His  fervid  eloquence  in  vain  to  move 
This  house  of  Beelial,  praying  it  be  hurled 
To  hottest  hell,  because  it  made  The  Cove 
A  hissing  and  a  byword  through  the  world; 
But  spite  of  all  his  preaching  and  his  praying, 
Bill  went  his  evil  ways,  and  only  turned 
Aside  from  them  when  it  was  time  for  spraying 
Tea  roses  and  the  lovely  like  that  yearned 
For  fellowship  even  from  this  man  of  sin. 

"The  only  time  I  ever  says  a  prayer,'* 

Bill  used  to  say,  "is  when  the  buds  begin, 

An'  honey-smells  o'  blossom  loads  the  air 

Wit'  cargoes  like  them  bloody  ships  that  sail 

From  furrin  ports  o'  Barbary  an'  Spain. 

'Sa  truth  I  tells  you,  fellers,  I  gets  pale 

At  smells  an'  sights  o'  flowers  from  a  pain 

That  starts  inside  me.  .   .  .  But — oh,  hell!     I  say, 

Come  on,  you  stinkin'  sculpins,  have  a  drink." 

Of  course  the  gossips  had  their  harpy  way 
On  Bill's  behavior,  missing  not  a  wink 
Directed  at  that  derelict  of  morals — 
Kate  Coolin — who  could  name  as  many  lovers 
As  there  were  beads  upon  her  string  of  corals. 
Kate  was  a  kitchen  pot  with  many  covers. 

23 


She  had  a  beauty  of  that  faded  kind 
Which  made  one  think  of  dahlias  overblown ; 
And  just  because  she  laughed  and  did  not  mind 
What  women  said,  but  gave  to  men  her  own 
Wild  drink  of  lust,  Bill  Boram  and  the  others 
Bowed  down  to  her  and  waited  on  her  word, 
Pledged  her  in  rum  and  called  themselves  blood- 
brothers, 

While  she  looked  on  through  green  cat-eyes  and  purred. 
Kate  lived  across  The  Cove,  and  owned  her  house 
Within  a  garden  that  was  walled  with  stone. 
Kate  often  said,  "A  cat  will  hunt  a  mouse, 
Why  not  a  woman  man?     Else  live  alone. 
Hell  does  I  care  fo'  them  old  tabbies'  talk!5* 

Then  Bill  would  pour  for  her  a  dirty  glass, 

Laughing,  "Their  blood  is  milk,  their  bones  is  chalk; 

You  has  more  sense  than  any  o'  them,  lass. 

Life  is  a  drink  o'  Forty-Over-Proof 

For  them  as  likes  to  take  it  at  a  gulp. 

Old  Blaylock  needn't  think  that  he  c'n  spoof 

Us  fellers  who  c'n  beat  Old  Nick  to  pulp." 

Kate's  window  opened  on  a  bank  of  flowers 
That  grew  in  tangled  glory  near  the  wall; 
Old-fashioned  blossoms  timing  to  the  hours 
And  seasons  of  the  year  from  spring  to  fall. 
Her  bleeding-hearts,  nasturtiums,  marigold, 
Her  hollyhocks,  Sweet  William  and  the  rest, 
Made  Bill's  heart  ache  for  envy ;  and  Kate's  bold 

24* 


Green  eyes,  red  mouth,  full  throat  and  buxom  breast 
Were  sometimes  more  than  rivaled  by  the  blooms 
Within  her  garden. 

"Bill,  ya  damned  red  fool!" 

Piqued,  Kate  would  say,  "Again  ya  has  tha  glooms 
From  garden  gazin'  an'  that  kind  o'  drool. 
Shet  down  tha  windy  an'  come  back  ta  cards. 
Some  day  ya'll  turn  ta  seed  an*  be  a  melon — 
Tha  mushy  yalla  kind  in  dunghill  yards — 
That's  what  ya'll  grow  ta  be,  mind  what  I'm  tell'n." 

For  answer  Bill  would  bow  a  humble  head, 
His  shoulders  quaking  and  his  red  brows  bent : 
"My  God !     They  makes  me  wish  that  I  wuz  dead — 
Them  flowers,  Kate  .  .   .  they  is  so  innercent  .  .  . 
An'  we — what  is  we,  Kate?    When  I  guts  fish 
Or  salts  'em  down,  I  feels  to  home  in  hell, 
An'  drink  an'  whorin'  is  me  only  wish ; 
But  when  I  comes  upon  the  sight  an'  smell 
O'  bleedin'  hearts  or  pansies,  seems  to  me 
As  I've  broke  promise  wit'  some  mate  I  know— 
The  whitest,  cleanest  kind  o'  company 
That  I  kept  once — can't  tell  how  long  ago. 
I  sees  his  face  an'  knows  it — yes  I  does — 
Blue  eyes  like  harebells — all  the  rest's  in  fog; 
But  them  eyes  tell  me  o'  the  man  I  wuz 
Afore  I  ...  hell !  give  me  a  glass  o*  grog." 

"Bill's  tangled  in  tha  riggin',  fellas,"  Kate 
Would  toss  her  head  and  say,  and  look  at  him, 

25 


Half  fearful  that  the  drink  had  turned  his  pate, 
"Come,  take  a  drink  afore  we  douse  tha  glim." 

Among  The  Cov'ers  it  was  common  talk 
That  drink  and  hellery  had  done  for  Bill. 
They  never  trembled  on  a  garden  walk 
At  moonlit  flowers  when  the  night  is  still. 
Earth-bound  and  blind,  they  never  turned  to  see 
What  magic  tapers  burn  above  the  grass 
Among  wild  roses  near  the  tracery 
Of  gray  snake  fences.     Gleams  within  a  glass, 
Their  world  was.     They  were  ordinary  folk — 
Regarding  Bill's  black  passions  devil-born, 
His  moody  love  of  flowers  just  a  joke; 
As  Bill  in  turn  regarded  them  with  scorn. 

Once  on  a  time  a  voice  called  from  a  cross, 
"Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 
That  voice  still  calls  where  stupid  people  toss 
Dice  for  man's  seamless  robe — not  torn  in  two, 
But  raffled  where  he  bleeds  beneath  the  thorns — 
The  thorns  that  always  pierce  the  brow  of  thought, 
Crushed  there  by  hands  as  ridged  and  hard  as  horns; 
Hands  of  the  people  by  the  High  Priest  bought. 

Bill's  tragedy  was  this :    No  man  could  see 
The  Christ  Who  came  to  him  upon  a  field 
Where  wild  flowers  are,  in  gardens  where  the  tree 
Stands  sentinel  above  the  phlox  and  Who  appealed 
To  save  Bill's  soul  through  Bill's  sweet  love  of  flowers ; 
And  just  because  they  could  not  see,  they  crowned 

26 


Bill's  head  with  mockery  of  thorns.     The  powers 
Of  darkness  fain  would  follow  with  the  hound — 
His  kennel  is  Convention,  and  his  name 
Public  Opinion.     When  you  hear  their  yell, 
A  soul  is  born  and  passes  through  the  flame 
Upward  to  God.     Beware  the  stupid  Good, 
Who,  being  stupid,  cannot  therefore  tell 
Christ  from  the  thief  blaspheming  on  his  rood. 

Among  Bill's  cronies  was  a  weakly  one — 
All  trembling  adoration  of  Bill's  strength 
And  lust  for  sin — Elihu  Conrad's  son. 
He  was  a  man  of  an  uncertain  length, 
Because  his  backbone  could  not  keep  his  head 
Upon  a  perpendicular.    His  hair — 
Like  floss  from  late  October  thistles  shed — 
Fell  down  to  hide  a  slanting  forehead  where 
A  thin  ridged  crooked  nose  began  to  rise. 
Sparse  growths  of  floss  were  on  his  mouth  and  chin, 
So  weak,  so  empty  and  so  gander-wise, 
That  one  expected  him  to  hiss.    A  thin 
Throat  met  two  forward-sloping  shoulder  blades 
That  bowed  in  meek  acceptance  of  that  yoke 
Which  all  the  unloved  carry.    "Ace  of  spades" 
We  called  his  awkward  feet,  and  used  to  poke 
Fun  at  his  limp.     Yet  in  this  man's  discord 
One  note  was  true:    A  sudden  miracle 
Of  light  and  color,  as  from  clear  skies  poured, 
Would  happen,  like  a  kiss  of  love  in  hell, 
When  George  in  answer  opened  wide  his  eyes — 

27 


Blue  as  the  harebells  in  a  place  of  vines, 
Blue  as  the  moons  on  wings  of  butterflies ; 
Their  color  sent  a  prickling  up  the  spines 
Of  men  who  left  off  cursing  him  to  stare. 

Bill  loved  him  as  a  man  might  love  a  dog — 
A  thing  for  kicks,  caresses,  and  a  share 
Of  fragments  from  the  table  when  the  grog 
Mellowed  his  mood ;  but  whether  Bill  was  kind 
Or  cross,  George  served  his  master  with  a  love 
That  seemed  a  very  foolish  and  a  blind 
Passion  to  all  the  people  at  The  Cove. 

At  sea  George  Conrad  was  Bill  Boram's  cook. 
And  he  could  cook  as  all  the  crew  averred: 
"G'arge  Coonrad's  ngger-head  ain't  wo'th  a  look, 
But  G'arge's  like  f  er  cookin'  ain't  been  heard, 
Ner  seen  uv  anywheres  along  ther  Banks !" 

Yet  these  same  boasters  of  George  Conrad's  art 
Played  on  their  fo'c'sle  cook  rough  oafish  pranks, 
Until  his  haunting  harebell  eyes  would  start 
With  overflowing  tears ;  then  he  would  clack, 
"Gud-gud-guddamit,  b'ys,  leaf  me  erlone!" 

His  bunk  behind  the  foremast  had  a  sack — 
Straw-stuffed — for  bedding,  hard  as  any  stone, 
With  one  rough  dirty  blanket  for  a  cover. 
Here  midst  the  many  noises  and  the  smell 
Of  bilge  and  pickle  brine,  this  loveless  lover 
Slept  while  the  Lottie's  bowsprit  rose  and  fell. 

28 


George  seemed  to  us  a  half-wit  harmless  freak, 
The  bearer  of  the  bladder  and  the  bells ; 
And  when  on  Sunday  nights  we  heard  his  meek 
Voice  quaver  through  the  creaking  and  the  smells 
Down  in  the  lantern-lighted  foVsle,  we, 
Playing  at  forty-fives,  would  turn  to  jeer: 

"Nice  thing  ter  have  er  parrot's  company."  .  .  . 
"Vat  iss  dem  tarn  st ranch  noises  vat  I  hear?"  .  .  . 
"Who  let  ther  old  gray  gander  from  ther  grate?"  .  .  . 
"It's  jest  er  porpoise  blowin'."  .   .   . 

"No  it  ain't."  .  .  . 
"What  is  it  then?"  .   .  . 

"A  tomcat  out  too  late." 

Then  George  would  cease  to  sing  and  make  complaint, 
"Gud-gud-guddamit,  b'ys  !"     Within  the  murk 
His  eyes  would  seem  to  float  and  burn  above, 
Till  we  would  feel  afraid  of  further  quirk 
Or  rough-mouthed  laughter  at  this  man  of  love 
Who  wanted  nothing  in  the  world  to  do — 
So  great  his  heart  and  simple  all  his  soul — 
But  wait  on  bad  Bill  Boram  and  us  crew. 
Pie  could  not  sing,  he  could  not  even  pole 
A  clam  scow;  but  he  certainly  could  cook. 
"Gud-gud-guddamit"  was  his  only  oath — 

29 


He  hissed  it  when  excited — and  his  look 

On  Bill  was  worship.    Bill  was  never  loath 

To  take  advantage  of  this  utter  love ; 

He  treated  it  as  we  treat  shrubs  and  trees — 

All  Nature's  inexhaustive  treasure  trove 

Of  deep  sea  shells,  polyps,  anemones; 

Shadows  on  inland  lakes,  when  herds  of  hills 

Crowd  close  together  like  wild  buffaloes ; 

Ferns  and  their  fellows  marching  down  deep  rills 

Of  woodland  water,  guarding  till  it  flows 

Forth  into  rivers.     We  are  casual 

With  Nature  and  but  seldom  moved  to  feel 

Our  debt  to  her.     We  must  have  ritual 

And  olden  rites  of  prayer,  who  make  appeal 

To  God  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost, 

Forgetful  that  these  high  and  holy  Ones 

Come  down  to  men  at  evening  Pentecost 

Of  skies  that  burn  with  westward  setting  suns. 

When  Bill  was  on  a  more  than  daily  drunk 
And  helpless  to  ascend  the  long  low  hill, 
Veering  to  leeward  like  a  Chinese  junk, 
George  came  and  towed  him  home,  not  minding  Bill 
Who  roared  on  after,  as  a  port-bound  trawler 
Comes  roaring  past  the  bar  behind  a  tug, 
Trailing  a  plume  of  steam,  her  black  bow  taller 
Than  that  tug's  funnel.     George  was  used  to  lug 
Bill's  burdens  made  by  many  nasty  sins. 
He  did  not  mind,  he  did  not  once  complain, 
When  Bill  in  anger  kicked  him  on  the  shins 

30 


Or  smashed  him  on  the  mouth.     He  bore  his  pain 
Without  a  word  and  went  on  serving  Bill. 
For  this  we  held  George  Conrad  in  deep  scorn, 
Adding  our  brutal  horse-play  with  a  will, 
And  made  him  curse  the  day  that  he  was  born. 

At  sea  Bill  held  himself  apart  from  booze, 

Because  an  aching  head  and  rum-blurred  eyes 

Make  bad  Bank-Captains.     There's  too  much  to  lose 

By  drinking,  and  Bill  aimed  to  keep  the  prize 

Won  by  the  Lottie  S.  from  year  to  year 

For  reaching  port  ahead  of  all  her  sisters. 

So  Bill  would  say,  "They's  time  for  rum  an'  beer 

An'  beatin'  hell  damnation  into  blisters, 

When  we  discharges  cargo  at  The  Belle. 

My  creed  is  this :  Play  when  they's  time  to  play, 

An'  when  they's  time  to  work,  then  work  like  hell — 

That's  what  I  alwuz  said  an'  what  I  say." 

So  for  that  reason,  there  were  golden  hours 
For  Conrad  and  his  meek  soul's  great  desire — 
Bill  Boram — since  they  shared  a  love  of  flowers ; 
And  on  that  love  unwitting  they  climbed  higher 
God's  hidden  spiral  stairway  to  the  stars ! 

Oft  when  the  dories  left  these  two  alone, 
And  George  was  humming  hymns  between  the  spars, 
Peeling  potatoes  for  the  big  beef-bone 
Stew  that  we  liked  so  well,  or  scouring  pans, 
Bill  would  come  reeling  down  the  quarter-deck 
With  what  he  used  to  call  his  Bible,  Hans 

31 


Gluck's  Botany,  calf-bound,  without  a  speck, 
Brass-cornered,  margins  of  hand-tooled  design — 
Minute  gilt  vines — and  center  one  red  rose. 
Then  George  would  stop  his  dreary  droning  whine, 
Cough,  spit,  or  loudly  blow  his  crooked  nose, 
And  rise  to  meet  his  master,  as  a  dog 
In  ecstasy  of  what  he  dumbly  loves — 
His  eyes  like  blue  rifts  in  a  bank  of  fog, 
As  innocent  as  are  the  eyes  of  doves. 

My  mate  and  I  would  find  them  thus  together — s 
Our  dory  sliding  down  the  hills  of  sea 
To  leeward  of  the  Lottie — when  the  weather 
Made  fishing  good  and  we  sailed  back  to  be 
First  on  the  home-trip,  loaded  to  the  gunwales ; 
And  as  we  coasted,  words  like  these  would  come: 

"Them  tubers  must  be  planted  deep.     They  tunnels 
Up'ards  to  meet  the  light,  sartin  that  some 
Place  waits  for  'em — all  blue  sky  an'  green  grass — 
Wit'  smells  an'  sights  o'  petals  everywhere. 
I  tells  you,  G'arge,  these  facts  is  like  a  glass 
In  which  you  sees  yourself.    I  doesn't  care 
A  damn  for  chu'ch.    The  pa'sons  is  all  wrong 
'Bout  hell  an'  heaven  an'  God  an'  Jesus  Christ; 
But  surely  somethin'  seems  to  ache  an'  long 
Deep  down  in  me  for  blue  sky-spaces.     Twic't 
Has  I  bored  up'ards  nearly  through  the  ground 
An'  almost  heard  an'  seen  an'  smelt  the  day 
Jist  on  the  other  side  o'  dark  an'  sound ; 

32 


Somethin'  o'  beauty  mor'n  the  month  o'  May 

When  through  the  moss  an'  roots  o'  trees  them  stars 

O'  airly  blossoms  twinkles  pink  an'  white. 

I  disagrees  wit'  pa'sons,  an'  these  spars 

A-tap'rin'  up'ard  tells  to  me  a  sight 

More'n  most  o'  men  c'n  tell.     To  hell  wit'  creeds! 

Yet,  begod,  them  dam  tubers  gets  my  goat. 

I'm  strong  for  fightin',  an'  I  likes  the  deeds 

O'  deviltry;  they  is  no  man  afloat 

C'n  lick  Bill  Boram,  an'  I'm  surely  bad ; 

But  somethin'  like  a  tuber's  inside  me, 

That  tunnels  up'ard,  somethin'  that  is  glad 

In  darkness  wors'n  hell.     What  c'n  it  be?" 

"Yer  soul!" 

"Oh,  hell!  they  ain't  no  soul." 

"Ther  iz." 
"You  goddam  gander,  when  we's  dead  we's  dead!" 

"Ther  hell  yer  sez  zo?     Then  what  wuz  it  riz 
Right  up  within  yer  when  them  May  flowers  spread 
Over  the  moss  an'  through  ther  roots  o'  trees  ?" 

Then  BiU  would  spy  us,  close  the  book  and  go 
Mumbling  a  Litany  of  blasphemies, 
Climb  quarter-deck  and  disappear  below. 

We  thought  these  things  a  weakness  in  our  Bill, 
Nodded  and  looked  at  night  across  the  cards, 

33 


While  one  would  say,  "Th'  ol'  man  has  lost  his  skill 
O'  cu'sin',  an'  he'd  better  brace  his  yards 
Afore  he  takes  ter  prayin' — damn  his  soul !" 

And  then  another,  "All  Bill  wants  is  grog." 

Another,  "This  damn  fo'c'sle  is  a  hole 

In  hell — all  smoke  an'  smell  wors'n  any  fog!" 

And  for'ard  of  the  table  George  looked  on, 
His  great  eyes  floating  on  a  sea  of  smoke, 
As  I  have  seen  two  mountain  peaks  at  dawn 
Swim  in  a  sea  of  mist  before  it  broke. 

"That  gander's  got  him  crazy"  one  would  say 
And  squirt  tobacco  juice  at  patient  George. 
"What  does  we  want  wit'  his  likes  anyway?  .  .  . 
Crawl  in  yer  bunk,  damn  yer,  yer  gets  me  gorge!" 

We  did  not  like  those  moments  of  our  Bill 
When  he  was  mooning  after  foolish  flowers; 
We  wanted  him  to  do  as  we  did — kill 
Time  with  a  bottle,  souse  his  idle  hours 
In  brown  and  bitter  Demarara  rum 
We  always  got  in  kegs  from  Foxey  Doolin. 
We  did  not  like  to  see  our  Bill  so  glum, 
And  said,  "It's  time  fer  port  an'  grog  an'  foolin* 
At  Sister  Kate's  er  at  ther  Belle  Mahone." 
We  whooped  like  mad  when  Bill's  word  came  at  last, 
That  put  within  the  Lottie's  mouth  a  bone — 
Her  gunwale  under  and  the  main  hatch  fast. 

34 


There  only  was  one  man  whom  Bill  respected, 
Old  Bobby  Fox  who  lived  above  The  Cove ; 
His  running1  gear  looked  always  much  neglected, 
And  yet  he  had  the  austere  face  of  Jove. 
His  forehead  mounted  upward  to  his  hair — 
The  way  a  cliff  keeps  climbing  to  a  cloud ; 
His  eyes  would  twinkle  kindly  or  would  stare; 
His  voice  was  seldom  high  and  never  loud. 
He  was  a  master  builder.    No  man  knew 
The  ins  and  outs  of  mill-dams  more  than  he* 
He  could  conduct  a  log  raft  and  a  crew 
Of  drunken  drivers  down  the  stream  to  sea, 
And  never  lose  a  log  or  man.    A  bottle 
Was  nothing  more  to  him  than  'twas  to  Bill: 
One  gulp,  and  all  of  it  went  down  his  throttle, 
Then  he  was  ready  for  another  fill. 

I  who  am  Parson  Blaylock's  vagrant  son — 
Mate  of  the  Flying  Scud  that  sails  afar, 
Cruising  for  whales,  from  Port  o'  Caledon, 
Within  the  circle  of  the  Polar  star — 
Hold  Bobby  Fox  the  finest  man  I  know. 
I  got  enough  book-baiting  from  my  sire — 
A  scholar  of  those  solid  sorts  that  grow 
In  English  Alma  Maters — to  aspire 
Beyond  Bill  Boram  and  his  cook  and  crew; 
So  read  and  talked  at  times  with  Bobby  Fox, 
When  they  were  drinking  "Donald's  Honey  Dew" 
Down  at  The  Belle  or  where  Kate's  rows  of  phlox 
Bordered  the  bank  abloom  with  bleeding  hearts. 

35 


While  it  is  true  I  vexed  the  Parson's  soul, 
Determined  not  to  take  a  course  in  arts 
At  Windsor  College,  having  for  my  goal 
A  Deep-Sea  Captain's  papers ;  yet  I  owe 
All  that  I  have  of  love  for  English  Letters 
To  Bobby  Fox,  who  taught  me  how  to  know 
The  poets  from  those  fools  who  ape  their  betters 
With  crooked  lengths  of  raucous  empty  words. 
He  made  me  understand  how  mighty  God 
Transfigured  scales  and  fins  to  feathered  birds, 
And  shaped  the  throat  of  Helen  from  the  clod. 
Self-lifted  from  the  welter  of  his  world, 
He  made  his  mind  a  mirror  of  the  ages. 

Still  do  I  see  him,  with  his  white  beard  curled 
By  clutching  fingers,  pondering  the  pages 
Of  some  old  book.     I  liked  him  best  of  all 
His  moments  with  me,  when  he  read  from  Keats, 
Expounding  as  he  read.     His  voice  would  fall 
In  measured  music  to  those  great-winged  beats 
That  lift  "The  Nightingale"  beyond  the  sun 
Of  Shakespeare  or  the  flame  of  Shelley's  star, 
Until  the  deep  dream  of  Endymion 
Became  in  me  one  moment's  avatar 
Of  beauty:  then  I  drank  the  purple  cup 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
Flooding  my  soul  with  wine,  and  lifted  up 
By  wings  of  fancy,  fled  away  with  him 
To  magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

36 


Vagrant  and  wastrel,  without  kith  or  home, 
I  know  that  then  my  spirit's  self  was  born. 

The  reason  why  Bob  loved  to  drink  with  Bill 
Was  that  he  saw  the  mystical  red  rose 
In  Bill's  sweet  love  of  flowers,  and  found  the  still 
Deep  water  which  the  Shepherd  Spirit  knows. 
Though  many  people  called  Bob  Fox  a  fool, 
Laughed  at  his  long  white  hair  and  tangled  beard, 
He  was  to  Bill  an  angel  of  the  pool — 
Stagnant,  scum-covered,  pregnant  with  a  weird 
Wild  family  of  things  that  skipped  and  twittered, 
Till  it  was  troubled  by  the  breath  of  wings. 

Old  Bobby's  house  among  the  trees  was  littered 
With  books  and  papers.    "I  like  to  have  the  things 
About  me  in  a  tumble.    Books  are  selves ; 
They  should  be  made  to  feel  like  folks  at  home — 
And  not  like  strangers,  stacked  there  on  those  shelves,' 
He  used  to  say.     "Now  look  at  Gibbon's  'Rome' 
All  torn  and  tattered  lying  on  the  floor 
With  Tacitus  and  Homer.     Can't  you  hear 
Them  gossiping?     They  are  old  friends.     Before 
You,  Bill,  were  born,  or  ever  thought  of  beer, 
They  were  old  cronies  toddling  down  the  road 
Together.     See  how  Keats  and  Burns  debate 
Odd  matters  of  their  craft.    They  need  no  goad 
To  prick  their  wit.     There  Lamb  and  Shelley  wait 
For  Wordsworth — always  slow  and  pondering. 
Coleridge  has  come,  half-crazed  from  taking  dope, 

37 


But  Godlike  in  his  madness,  wondering 

At  what  he  hears,  wistful,  too  weak  to  cope 

With  life,  yet  loving  it,  and  humble — glad 

To  be  among  his  fellows.     That  great  hunch 

Of  cheekbones  and  red  hair  is  Byron.     Mad 

He  was,  all  right,  and  all  hell  flame — could  crunch 

A  cockney's  chest-bone  with  his  fist.     He  swam 

The  Hellespont — could  beat  you,  Bill,  at  swearing. 

He  stood  alone  and  did  not  give  a  damn 

For  life,  divine  and  beautiful  in  daring." 

Bob  was  a  rebel.     His  gray  eyes  had  seen 

Too  many  lies  go  garbed  in  honest  worth 

For  him  to  acquiesce.    "It  gets  my  spleen 

The  way  those  actors  walk  about  the  earth 

As  if  they  owned  it."  .  .  . 

People  of  The  Cove, 
The  parson  and  the  local  pedagogue, 
Held  this  man  with  the  austere  face  of  Jove 
Demented  or  hell-bound.    He  had  a  dog 
Named  "Tob" — an  English  bull — the  tawny  kind — 
All  growl  and  teeth  and  wrinkles.    When  Bob  closed 
His  gate  and  took  the  road,  Tob  went  behind, 
Snuffling  and  coughing.     When  Bob  sat,  he  dozed 
Between  his  feet.     When  Bob  got  up  to  go, 
Tob  came  to  life  and  wagged  his  stumpy  tail, 
Barking.     Bob  thought  him  wise  and  liked  to  show 
What  Tob  could  do — Bill  laughing  like  a  gusty  gale. 

Bob  liked  to  call  himself  agnostic,  said, 
"Nobody  knows  how  man  came  here  at  all.  .  .  . 

88 


Don't  quote  the  Bible !  'tis  a  guess-book — read  . 
Only  by  those  who  hold  to  Adam's  fall — 
A  book  of  fables  and  of  prophet-stuff. 
Prophets  are  just  good  guessers.     As  for  priests"- 
Here  Bob  Fox  always  swore — "I  hate  their  guff 
About  the  Sabbath  and  their  fasts  and  feasts. 
I  cannot  see  that  they  have  changed  so  much 
Since  Annas  and  his  son-in-law  hung  Christ 
On  Golgotha.  .  .  .  There  was  a  man !     No  touch 
Of  snobbishness  on  him.     He  had  the  gist 
Of  common  sense.     If  he  survives  the  cross 
And  lives  somewhere  among  those  distant  stars — 
I  don't  deny,  Bill,  it's  a  pitch  and  toss 
That  he's  alive  somewhere  without  the  scars 
His  poor  dead  face  had  when  they  took  him  down — 
If  he's  alive  somewhere  and  hears  the  drool 
Blaylock  declaims  about  a  harp  and  crown 
And  raiment  whitened  in  a  bloody  pool, 
It  must  make  him  ashamed  and  want  to  hide 
His  head  behind  a  planet  and  forget 
That  he  was  sold  for  cash  and  crucified !  .   .   . 
Come,  Tob.  .  .  .  Night,  Bill!  .  .  .  Wind's  east.  .  . 
Guess  't'll  be  wet." 

Of  course,  as  I  have  said,  The  Cov'ers  thought 
Bob  Fox  worse  than  a  fool.    At  sermon  time, 
They  nodded  heads  when  Parson  Blaylock  brought 
His  admonition  hard  against  the  crime 
Of  creedless  living.    He  would  say,  "Who  knows 
What  God's  thoughts  are?     Beloved,  we  are  worms, 

39 


Vile  earth  and  sinners.     God  himself  bestows 
Grace  and  redemption ;  we  must  take  his  terms 
Or  go  to  hell;  he  who  denies  the  cross, 
Denies  that  unforgiving  wrath  of  God 
Which  Christ  assuaged  for  man.     Eternal  loss 
Be  his  who  leans  not  on  the  staff  and  rod 
Of  our  religion.  .  .    .   Let  us,  brethren,  sing1 — 
Hymn  9 :  'There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood.'  " 
And  as  they  sang,  my  thoughts  went  wandering 
With  Bobby  Fox  and  Bill  through  Wylie's  Wood. 

I  know  that  I  have  been  a  worthless  son — 

Unworthy  of  the  man  whose  name  I  bear — 

And  I  deplore  the  deeds  that  I  have  done 

In  quest  of  idle  pleasure — black  despair 

Is  on  me  as  I  write — yet  this  I  know: 

That  father  would  have  been  a  greater  man, 

And  I  a  better  son,  if,  long  ago, 

He  had  renounced  the  God  of  Caliban 

Which  he  mistook  for  Jesu's  God  of  Love. 

Had  he  preached  Him  Whom  Jesus  used  to  preach, 

What  wonders  would  have  happened  at  The  Cove; 

What  miracles  and  marvels  on  the  beach ! 

The  Parson  was  a  man  of  gloom.     His  eyes 
Held  ice  within  their  blend  of  gray  and  green, 
Small  and  close-set.    Like  Byron's  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
His  dominating  nose  was  doom.     Between 
The  thin-pressed  lips  no  laugh  could  ever  live — 
It  died  ere  it  was  born.     Those  lips  were  like 

40 


The  lips  of  Borgia  who  could  not  forgive 

A  rival's  word.    His  tongue,  a  sting  to  strike 

And  poison  as  it  struck,  made  me  afraid — 

Who  would  have  loved  him.    He  was  straight  and  true, 

Lived  close  to  his  convictions.     A  keen  blade 

Within  a  scabbard,  his  soul  liked  to  hew 

The  heads  of  the  ungodly  from  their  shoulders. 

Had  he  known  God  of  Whom  he  talked  so  much, 

Our  hearts  had  not  been  hard  as  granite  boulders ; 

We  might  have  felt  instead  the  tender  touch 

Of  Him  Who  loved  the  lilies  of  the  field 

And  played  with  wrens  and  sparrows,  as  He  played 

With  children  in  the  market,  and  appealed 

To  sinners,  saying,  "Do  not  be  afraid!" 

This  cold-eyed  son  of  thunder  and  of  gloom, 

Drove  Bobby,  Bill,  myself  and  many  others 

To  outer  darkness  and  eternal  doom ; 

Called  us  the  sons  of  Beelial.     Like  brothers, 

We  gaily  moved  against  the  gate  of  hell, 

Storming  its  locks  with  laughter.     "Rum"  our  word, 

We  passed  it  on  to  Satan  and  who  dwell 

Forever  with  him.    Bill  was  never  heard 

With  God's  name  on  his  tongue  save  when  he  swore — • 

And  Robert  Fox  on  sunny  summer  mornings, 

Walked  past  the  church  and  its  wide  open  door, 

What  time  the  pulpit  creaked  with  parson's  warnings ! 

The  gossip  of  the  gossips  of  The  Cove 
Was  named  "She  Weasel"  by  her  bitten  sisters. 

41 


Her  topboots  and  her  bonnet  seemed  to  rove 

From  dawn  to  dark.    No  lips  of  love  had  kissed  hers, 

But  surely  hate  and  malice  had.     She  washed 

Clothes  for  a  living,  when  she  did  not  hoe 

In  gardens.     By  her  conscience  unabashed, 

She  thrived  on  scandal,  seeming  glad  to  know 

Evil  of  any  one.     She  was  the  head 

Of  our  auxiliary.     She  had  saved  money, 

So  loaned  it  out  at  ten  per  cent.     She  said, 

"De  Bible  puts  it  dat  way.  .  .  .  Ain't  it  funny 

How  God  wo'ks  wit'  de  godly !    I  gets  rich 

By  'beyin'  Numbers  18 :21. 

Bill  was  her  bugbear,  called  her  "That  old  witch!"; 
Teased  her  at  times  and,  talking  to  her,  spun 
Yarns  by  the  fathom  of  the  fisher  folk, 
And  sent  her  flying  through  The  Cove  to  tell — 
What  never  happened!    This  we  thought  a  joke 
And  laughed  together,  drinking  at  The  Belle. 

The  Weasel's  brother  had  the  writer's  itch 
And  filled  the  county  paper  full  of  rhyme. 
He  used  to  say,  "Bill  Shakespeare  hadn't  sich 
A  knack  o'  wrerse — c'n  beat  him  any  time ; 
He  mostly  wrote  a  werse  dat  dey  calls  'blank,' 
Vich  means  he  couldn't  alvays  keep  de  jig, 
Like  Johnny  c'n.  .  .  .  Say,  b'ys,  to  hear  John  spank 
De  fiddle  is  a  sight — squeals  like  a  pig, 
An'  bellers  like  a  cow,  dat  fiddle  does.  .  .  . 
You  has  to  keep  de  jig,  or  else  you  ain't 

42 


A  poet  as  I  is.    Vunce  ven  I  vuz 
Out  valking  on  de  beach,  I  felt  all  faint 
Vit'  music  that  come  soundin'  on  de  sea, 
An'  den,  I  svears  vit'  all  my  heart,  I  jest 
Could  hear  de  angels  laughin'  plain's  could  be, 
As  if  dey  vere  a  ridin'  on  de  crest 
0'  vaves  that  slithered  sodden  on  de  sand!  .  .  . 
That's  vy  I  is  a  poet,  'cause  I  knows 
Vat  most  o'  fellers  cannot  onderstand: 
De  reason  vy  de  red  is  on  de  rose ; 
Vy  birdsongs  in  de  bushes  makes  you  mad 
Vit'  longin'  for  to  leap  onto  de  air- 
Does  any  of  you  fellers  feel  dat  glad 
For  beauty  dat  you  vants  to  pull  your  hair?" 

We  laughed  at  him,  as  we  made  fun  of  George, 
And  idled  while  he  worked  and  talked  along — 
All  smudge  and  sweat  within  his  roadside  forge; 
His  beaten  anvil  clinking  into  song. 
No  beauty  that  I  know  of  touched  his  face — 
His  eyes  were  crossed,  his  chin  a  crooked  pear — * 
But  something  in  his  words,  distilled  by  grace 
From  deep-throat  music,  made  us  all  aware 
Of  one  who  wore  the  colored  coat  of  dreams. 
His  friend  was  little  blind  old  Johnny  Deal 
Who  played  the  fiddle.     Quaint  familiar  themes 
Of  music  were  his  choice — Virginia  Reel; 
St.  Patrick's  Day;  the  Brides  of  Enderby.  .  .  . 
How  he  could  play  them!     Sitting  on  a  keg 
Of  horseshoe  nails,  he  made  such  melody 

43 


That  we  were  bound  to  shake  a  joyous  leg, 
Dancing  about  the  forge,  while,  with  his  hammer, 
The  poet-blacksmith  kept  a  clinking  time; 
Until  we  filled  the  cob-webbed  roof  with  clamor 
Of  thudding  footfalls  through  the  lusty  rhyme: 
"The  leg  of  a  duck, 
The  wing  of  a  goose — 
Ta-ra — ta-ra — too-looral-riday." 

Sam  Publicover  was  our  poet's  name, 
And  he  lived  with  his  sister  on  the  hill, 
Not  far  from  Foxey  Doolin.     When  a  game 
Of  forty-fives  was  on,  and  Skipper  Bill, 
Mellowed  by  liquor  and  his  luck  at  cards, 
Said,  "Send  for  Sam  an'  Johnny,"  George  the  cook 
Would  answer,  "Fill  me  a  glass  an'  brace  me  yards. 
An'  I  will  go  an'  git  'em,  hook  er  crook!" 
And  when  Sam  came  with  John  and  Johnny's  fiddle, 
Things  happened  in  the  great  loft  of  The  Belle. 
Kate  Coolin  and  her  reckless  kind — the  riddle 
Of  all  the  ages  how  they  slip  to  hell — 
Were  always  there  and  ready  for  that  fun 
Which  drink  and  elemental  sex  produce; 
Ready  as  any  man  with  fist  or  gun — 
To  kiss  or  fight  was  all  the  same,  for  use 
Had  hardened  them.     Sam  called  the  dances  off, 
While  Johnny  played,  seated  upon  a  table 
And  thumping  with  his  feet.     No  pig-sty  trough 
Was  filthier  than  the  floor.     The  low  wide  gable 
Held  all  the  smoke ;  but  we  had  lungs  like  leather. 

44 


Chairs,  tables,  back  against  the  sloping  wall, 

We  chose  our  partners,  kissed  them  and  together 

Danced  till  the  webs  of  dawn  began  to  fall. 

Blind  Johnny  played  his  tunes  in  two-stringed  chord, 

Holding  his  fiddle  well  down  on  his  breast, 

His  head  thrown  back,  and  chugging,  like  a  Ford, 

With  both  feet,  keeping  noisy  time  as  best 

He  could  above  the  racket  that  we  made; 

While  Sam,  beside  him  on  the  floor,  declaimed : 

"Come  vit'  yer  richetty  table  .  .  .  promenade.  .  .  . 
Saloot  yer  pardeners.  .  .   .  Kiss  de  gal  yer  tamed.  .  .  , 
Sashay  .  .  .  keep  step  dere,  G'arge  an'  Mary  Ann.  .  .  , 
De  figger  eight.  .  .  .  Now  do  de  Sugar  Bowl.  .  a  . 
A  leedle  faster,  Johnny,  if  yer  can.  .  .  . 
Now  all  together  on  de  Dutchman's  Roll, 
Den  kiss  an'  lead  yer  lady  down  de  line." 
As  Sammy  called  and  Johnny  scraped  away, 
The  fish-loft,  reeking  smoke  and  smell  of  brine, 
Rocked  to  the  rafters  till  the  break  of  day. 


PART  TWO 

"And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since  and  lost  awhile." 

— John  Henry  Newman. 


PART  TWO 

This  is  the  picture,  blent  of  light  and  shade, 
Of  bad  Bill  Borara.    Have  I  dwelt  too  long, 
And  with  too  much  detail  on  things  that  made 
Him  memorable  to  us?     Forgive  the  wrong, 
And  in  your  kindness  think  a  while  on  me, 
Writing  'twixt  watch  and  watch  beneath  the  star 
That  burns  above  this  frozen  polar  sea, 
My  table  built  about  the  old  Scud's  spar. 
A  man's  soul  is  a  bit  of  cosmic  vapor. 
It  may  become  a  planet  or  a  sun, 
Or  it  may  be  a  twinkle  on  a  taper 
Set  in  a  window  for  some  absent  one 
Who  tarries  overlong  within  the  night; 
But  I  affirm  to  all  of  you  who  read 
This  story,  if  it  ever  come  to  light, 
That  man  is  God's  Son,  that  his  final  need 
Is  always  God.     I  hold  that  we  are  here 
On  secret  service,  and  in  flesh  disguised 
That  each  may  do  his  work  and  interfere 
With  no  one.    I  maintain  that  God  devised 
All  sorts  and  kinds  of  methods  when  he  said, 
"Let  us  make  man,"  because  God's  mighty  mind 

49 


Is  full  of  dreams,  as  this  sky  overhead 
Is  full  of  stars.     If  any  man  can  find 
The  number  of  those  stars,  then  let  him  tell 
What  are  the  plans  and  purposes  of  God. 

Give  me  a  chart  of  all  the  seas  that  swell 

From  shore  to  shore,  and  I  will  sight  Cape  Cod 

Or  round  The  Horn,  with  sextant,  compass,  log 

To  make  my  reckonings.    Here  is  a  chart — - 

This  story  that  I  write — a  glass  o'  grog 

Beside  me  on  the  table.     Do  I  part 

With  reason  who  affirm  enough  is  here 

To  pick  my  way  and  find  what  God  is  after? 

If  so,  then  close  this  page  upon  your  sneer 

And  go  your  way,  my  friend,  you  and  your  laughtei 

The  world  has  lots  of  blind  men — you  are  blind ! 

Thank  God,  I  think  your  blindness  a  disguise. 

Or  I  might  want  to  weep  for  all  your  kind 

Who  only  have  the  outward  form  of  eyes. 

A  little  space  of  coastline  is  enough 
For  any  sailor,  if  he  have  the  art 
Of  making  havens  on  the  high  seas — rough 
Or  smooth  the  weather — working  by  the  chart 
Through  drowsy  distances  of  wakeful  nights; 
And  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you  to  own, 
Who  follow  me.     Behold,  the  harbor  lights 
Are  winking  down  the  windswept  horizon! 

A  vulgar,  dirty,  drunken  beast  was  Bill; 
George  Conrad  just  a  dreary  hopeless  fool; 

50 


Kate  Coolin  was  indeed  a  jaded  Jill; 

The  rest  of  us,  mere  tadpoles  in  a  pool 

Of  green-webbed  water,  all  save  Bobby  Fox 

And  Parson  Blaylock  my  dogmatic  father; 

But,  by  the  charted  course  that  skirts  the  rocks 

Of  Scander  Shoals  and  its  wind-drifted  lather, 

I  bid  you  ponder  as  I  pick  a  path 

Through  what  is  written  of  my  bad  Bill  Boram, 

That  we  may  find  Christ  in  this  man  of  wrath, 

And  finding,  sing,  "O  come,  let  us  adore  him  I** 

The  thing  that  I  first  started  out  to  tell, 
Began  to  happen  in  the  Lottie  S. 
When  Bill  was  well  upon  the  road  to  hell, 
And  we  were  prone  to  curse  but  not  to  bless. 
All  season  luck  had  gone  against  the  crew. 
Our  dories  rode  the  sliding  hills  of  sea, 
And  lurked  within  their  hollows  where  the  blue 
Sky  seemed  to  roof  us  over.    Bitingly 
Bill  cursed  us,  as  we  cursed  in  turn  at  him, 
Because  the  cod  were  scarce;  and  day  by  day, 
We  came  back  almost  empty,  save  a  skim 
Of  haddock  and  the  like.     We  worked  away 
From  cold,  wet,  dismal  dawns  to  gusty  dark 
And  made  the  Lottie  by  her  dipping  light, 
Cursing  in  chorus,  like  a  wolf-pack  bark 
Within  the  silence  of  a  Northern  night. 
We  picked  out  Bill  upon  the  quarter-deck 
Merely  by  all  the  waiting  mass  of  him — 
Fixed  like  a  spar  and  reeling  in  a  wreck 

51 


Of  rigging — save  an  intermittent,  dim 

Glow  of  his  pipe.    Bill's  silence  was  far  worse 

Than  blasphemy.     Knowing  the  man,  we  felt 

His  soul  was  one  red  scorifying  curse 

Like  a  lake  of  lava.     He  stood  hands  in  belt, 

Marking  our  empty  dories  as  we  hauled 

Them  in  and  made  them  fast — boat  piled  on  boat, 

As  George  the  cook  piled  plates.    If  some  one  bawled 

An  extra  curse,  Bill  did  not  seem  to  note 

His  noise.     If  one  spoke  to  him,  Bill's  reply 

Was  just  a  jet  of  smoke  above  his  beard, 

And  then  a  deeper  fury  in  his  eye, 

Glowing  like  polished  bronze.     Somehow  we  feared 

Bill's  quiet  more  than  his  blaspheming  lips ; 

Turned  heavily  to  eat  whatever  grub 

George  served,  then  smoked  and  talked  of  sea  and  ships 

And  wondered  who  had  deviled  our  old  tub — 

The  cranky  green-hulled  schooner  Lottie  S. 

"I  does  not  like  the  look  in  th'  ol'  man's  eyes," 
One  of  our  dory-men  would  say.     "I  guess 
He  blames  it  on  us  fellers.     Won't  surprise 
Me  any  if  they's  hell  to  pay  'fore  long, 
Unless  we  strikes  some  cod." 

"Ya  damn  well  right," 

His  mate  would  answer,  pulling  deep  and  strong 
At  his  clay  pipe.     "Bill's  spilin'  for  a  fight, 
An'  one  o'  these  black  God-forgotten  days 
He'll  let  tha  devil  tap  'im  on  tha  shoulder, 
An'  then  ya'll  see  what  happens." 

52 


"Sure,  he'll  raise 
Hell  a'right,  afore  us  fellas  is  much  older." 

So  none  of  us  was  taken  much  aback 

When  finally  the  devil  entered  Bill, 

And  he  came  down  the  fo'c'sle  like  a  wrack 

Of  North-east  squalls.     Conrad  had  stopped  to  fill 

The  kettle  on  the  stove  which  stood  port  side 

The  fo'c'sle  steps.     I  saw  Bill  Boram  kick 

Conrad  and  crack  a  rib. 

"God  damn  your  hide," 
Yelled  Bill,  "get  out  o'  this  !" 

I  tried  to  pick 

George  from  the  floor,  for  he  fell  with  a  groan, 
And  met  Bill's  fist  on  my  protesting  lips 
That  said,  "Bill  Boram,  you've  a  heart  o'  stone!" 

"I  has  a  heart  o*  hell  for  them  as  ships 

For  seamen  an'  is  lubbers,"  Bill  returned, 

While  I  ran  from  his  reach.     The  rest  stood  still. 

George  groaned  again.    The  fo'c'sle  lanterns  burned 

Yellow  above  his  face  so  weak  of  will, 

And  void  of  purpose. 

"He  has  killed  the  cook!" 
One  muttered,  adding,  "They  must  swing  who  kill." 

Then  Bill  stepped  over  George,  closed  fist,  and  shook 
Defiance  in  our  faces.     "You  damned  scum 
O'  rottin'  mud-pools,  does  you  think  I  care 

53 


For  laws  o'  God  or  man?    You've  swilled  my  rum 

An'  eat  my  vittles,  but  you  does  not  dare 

To  stand  against  Bill  Boram  in  his  hour. 

The  wrath  o'  hell  is  on  me,  for  you've  shirked 

All  season.     None  o'  you  is  fit  to  scour 

Pans  wit'  the  cook — a  damn  fool,  but  he's  worked 

His  fingers  to  the  bone  for  me!" 

"And  you," 

I  yelled  with  crimson  froth  through  broken  teeth, 
"Kick  him  to  death." 

Bill  glared  at  me.     I  drew 
Back — eyes  on  Bill — then  stood,  touched  my  knife 

sheath, 

And  waited.     One  by  one  the  others  crept 
Past  me  for  safety  in  the  shadows  where 
The  fo'c'sle  ends,  and  where  George  Conrad  slept. 
I  faced  Bill.     Underneath  the  yellow  flare 
And  smoke  of  swaying  lanterns,  Bill  went  back, 
I  with  him,  swiftly  on  the  clustered  years 
Of  yesterdays,  as  wild  things  take  the  track 
Lost  in  the  leaves  of  autumn.    Ancient  fears, 
Old  hates,  stirred  in  us.     From  our  glaring  eyes 
Ghosts  of  dead  quarrels  looked,  as  through  the  panes 
Of  haunted  houses  (are  those  tales  all  lies?) 
Pale  memories  appear  in  autumn  rains 
Like  tears  of  grief;  they  looked  from  me  to  Bill, 
Met  in  the  valley  of  the  scattered  bones. 


54. 


And  then  I  knew  that  we  were  Gods  to  kill 

Or  make  alive.     I  heard  vast  undertones 

Of  choral  words  caught  from  the  morning  stars, 

When  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy. 

Eternity  was  on  us  and  the  bars 

Of  space  were  lifted.     Hate  sought  to  destroy 

That  moment,  but  the  morning  song  of  Love, 

As  earth's  foundations  rose,  did  conquer  Hate 

And  made  him  friend ;  so  they  no  longer  strove 

Together.     I  knew  God  was  there,  elate 

With  courage  that  is  born  of  faith  in  things. 

I  said,  deep  in  my  soul  where  God  is  guest : 

"It  is  no  marvel  that  all  beauty  springs 

From  earth  triumphant,  that  the  leaves  attest 

With  trees  and  grass,  forever  faith  in  Him — 

O  God,  thy  faith  in  us  in  turn  demands 

Our  faith  in  thee!"     At  this,  I  saw  a  dim 

White  face  of  pain  and  movement  of  hurt  hands ! 

As  I  stood  waiting  there  for  Bill  to  leap, 
George  stirred  and  groaned  again.     He  tried  to  rise, 
But  fell  back  on  the  floor.    He  tried  to  creep 
Closer  to  Bill,  with  hurt  love  in  his  eyes — 
Eyes  that  were  wet  blue  harebells  when  the  mist 
Rolls  back  from  summer  gardens — and  to  me, 
They  were  as  the  rebuking  gaze  of  Christ 
Turned  on  the  swearing  Simon.     Mystery 
Of  some  pursuing  and  unbaffled  love 
Looked  out  from  Conrad's  eyes.     I  thought  of  all 
That  Robert  Fox — the  wise  man  of  The  Cove — 

55 


Had  taught  me,  and  I  heard  once  more  the  call 

Of  morning  muezzins  out  of  the  East, 

Through  noises  of  old  cities.     Like  strung  beads 

Fumbled  by  fingers  of  a  praying  priest, 

I  touched  linked  memories  of  olden  deeds 

By  which  man  rose  bleeding  from  the  abyss 

Whence  all  the  worlds  rise.     Like  a  written  page, 

The  past  was.     I  knew  I  had  lived  for  this 

One  moment  of  clear  vision,  and  my  rage 

Against  Bill  Boram  died  down  in  the  tears 

Of  Peter  when  he  wept  within  the  night. 

Did  that  in  me  which  went  back  through  the  years 

Touch  bad  Bill  Boram  in  the  cruel  might 

Of  his  red  wrath?     He  turned  from  me  and  saw 

What  he  had  done,  and  then  the  red  hot  glare 

Died  in  his  gaze,  as  he,  with  waking  awe, 

Descended,  as  a  man  descends  a  stair, 

The  blue  depths  of  George  Conrad's  misted  eyes. 

Did  Bill  find  what  I  found?     I  only  know 

That  on  his  angry  face  began  to  rise, 

Like  moon-rays  on  the  sullen  fall  and  flow 

Of  black  sea  waters,  such  a  radiance 

That  I  saw  him  transfigured.     All  the  man 

Was  white  and  glistening.     Was  it  just  chance 

The  foVsle  shadows  lengthened  to  a  span 

Of  terraced  avenues  of  olive  trees? 

Strange  that  I  heard  a  far-away  sad  crying, 

As  of  a  soul  deep  in  the  mysteries 

Of  grief — a  soul  within  the  shadow  lying ! 

£••••••• 

56 


I  saw  so  much  that  moment  in  a  mist 
As  one  sees  ere  one  sleeps.    Bill's  face  went  white. 
He  stood  above  George  Conrad,  each  great  fist 
Pale  on  the  knuckles.    In  the  yellow  light 
Of  swaying  lanterns,  something  seemed  to  stand 
Beside  him;  something  that  had  haunting  eyes 
Like  Conrad's;  something  with  a  wounded  hand, 
A  smitten  mouth ;  something  that  pain  made  wise* 
Bill  could  not  see,  but  well  I  know  he  felt 
That  bleeding  passion.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  bowed 
His  body,  then  in  presence  of  us  all  he  knelt 
At  Conrad's  side.    He  shuddered,  as  a  shroud 
Plucked  by  the  wind  shudders ;  and  then  he  spoke : 

"God  damn  the  feet  that  steps  upon  a  flower, 
The  fingers  that  has  ever  blossoms  broke ! 
God  damn  to  torment  o'  hell's  hottest  hour, 
Me  for  a  traitor!  .  .  .  Men,  I  has  betrayed 
Beauty!  .  .  .  Look  at  his  eyes!" 

And  one  by  one, 

Bill's  crew  came  down  the  fo'c'sle.    Each  man  made 
An  act  of  reverence — the  orison 
Of  souls  that  see  God's  beauty  in  a  blade, 
A  bud,  a  leaf ;  and  seeing,  are  aware 
Of  His  pervading  Presence  in  all  things 
That  grow  above  the  soil  or  tread  the  stair 
Of  morning  in  a  majesty  of  wings. 
No  word  was  spoken,  as  the  men  passed  by ; 
For  Bill's  repentance  poured  upon  their  souls, 

57 


As  one  may  see,  at  dark,  white  water  fly 
Over  the  saw-toothed  reefs  of  Scander  Shoals. 
Foul  with  the  smoke  of  lanterns  and  the  smell 
Of  bilge  and  pickle  brine,  the  fo'c'sle  seemed 
A  hollow  on  a  hill.    I  could  not  tell 
Why  all  the  birds  sang.    Like  a  story  dreamed 
Within  a  moment,  when  deceiving  time 
Plays  tricks  with  fancy,  all  I  ever  saw 
Of  beauty  lived  again,  as  in  a  rhyme 
Love  can  create  its  past.     A  cleansing  awe 
Was  on  us,  as  we  watched  Bill  weeping  there 
Before  George  Conrad  who  looked  up  and  smiled. 
The  Lottie's  fo'c'sle  was  a  place  of  prayer, 
Each  of  her  crew  had  gone  back  to  the  child 
That  found  Christ's  Kingdom.     Sorrow  baptized 

them — 

Sorrow  that  is  the  prophet  of  the  ford 
Bethabara,  to  whom  Jerusalem 
And  all  Judea  come  to  find  their  Lord, 
Revealed  by  Sorrow  standing  in  the  river 
And  wet  with  water  as  of  falling  tears — 
Sorrow  on  whom  the  Holy  Ghost  and  Giver 
Of  life  waits  for  His  moment,  when  He  hears 
That  prophet  cry,  "Behold  the  Lamb  of  God !" 

Out  of  the  brute  there  broke  the  sudden  flame, 
As  red  wheat-poppies  burst  between  the  clod, 
Transfiguring  the  Lottie's  crew  with  shame 
For  all  that  they  had  done  to  George.    They  stood 
Silent  before  the  blue  appeal  of  eyes 

58 


That  judged  them,  as  of  old  Love  on  a  rood 
Judged  men ;  for  every  word  that  crucifies, 
And  every  thought  that  weaves  a  crown  of  thorn 
Must  come  to  judgment — else  the  soul  in  vain 
Strives  upward  out  of  night  to  meet  the  morn 
Upon  the  path  of  knowledge  that  is  pain. 
I  saw  the  faces  of  the  Lottie's  crew 
Change  to  those  faces  forming  through  the  mist 
Of  Angelo's  great  picture  on  the  blue 
Above  Rome's  ever-offered  Eucharist. 

"G'arge,  has  I  hurt  you  to  your  death?"  Bill  said, 
"G'arge,  mate  o'  mine,  I  did  not  know  that  you 
Had  v'yaged  wit'  me  from  the  Port  o*  Dead 
To  Port  o'  Livin'.     Matey,  is  it  true, 
Or  is  I  crazed  wi'  grievin'  o'  the  catch 
We  has  not  made?    It  wuz  so  long  ago 
That  we  went  sailin'  past  a  garden  patch 
High  on  a  hill — the  place  I  does  not  know — 
But,  G'arge,  I  sees  it,  plainer  than  I  see 
Them  dirty  lanterns  swingin'  overhead. 
Where  did  we  live,  my  mate,  and  what  wuz  we 
Afore  we  v'yaged  from  the  Port  o'  Dead?" 
And  for  his  answer  Conrad  only  smiled; 
But  in  that  smile  I  swear  I  heard  a  sound 
Far  overhead,  a  faint  far  sound  and  wild, 
Like  summer  voices  calling  from  the  ground, 
When  one  rests  under  trees  and  listens  well. 
It  came  upon  me  in  a  gust  of  words, 
Like  broken  echoes  of  a  distant  bell, 
And  not  unlike  the  twittering  of  birds : 

59 


When  it  is  morning,  on  the  sky 
The  stars  like  dewdrops  scattered  lie; 
And  then,  the  sun,  a  golden  rose, 
Within  God's  garden  open  blows. 

God's  grafting  knife,  the  quarter-moon, 
Falls  from  His  hand,  when  it  is  noon ; 
At  noon  he  lets  the  tendril  twine 
About  the  stake  above  the  vine. 

God's  cattle  crop  the  tender  grass. 
They  are  the  clouds  that  slowly  pass — 
They  slowly  pass  along  the  way 
Between  to-day  and  yesterday. 

God  has  no  helpers  but  His  sons 
Who  are  His  loved  and  trusted  ones; 
Together  they  go  down  the  row 
Where    root    and   branch    and    blossom 
grow. 

As  they  go  down,  God  laughs  and  talks. 
He  loves  those  early  morning  walks, 
He  loves  the  handles  of  a  plough, 
He  loves  the  bending  of  a  bough ; 

But  more  than  all  He  loves  each  son, 
Wants  him  to  do  what  He  has  done — 
Wants  all  His  sons  to  do  and  dare, 
That  He  with  them  may  all  things  share. 

60 


God  tells  His  sons,  "I  have  a  plan, 
That  we  together  may  make  man, 
And  on  his  forehead  and  his  face 
Impress  our  likeness  and  our  grace. 

"Out  of  the  furrow  in  the  clod, 

Let  us  make  man,  my  sons,"  saith  God: 

And  all  the  sons  together  cry, 

"We  will!"  across  the  morning  sky. 

"We  will  make  man  out  of  the  clod, 
We'll  make  him  great  and  good,  like  God; 
And  that  he  may  not  fail  God's  plan, 
We  will  descend  and  be  made  man — 

"We  will  descend  and  count  no  loss, 
No  pain,  no  sorrow,  scourge  nor  cross ; 
We'll  dare  the  depth  of  death  and  hell 
That  man  may  be  God's  miracle — 

"God's  miracle  of  love  and  laughter, 
With  all  that  is  Christ  coming  after — • 
God's  miracle  of  lifted  wings 
Above  a  sea  of  sorrowings. 

"We'll  bend  the  sunbeams  like  a  bow, 
And  bind  them  on  his  brow  of  snow; 
And  on  his  soul  of  sundered  flame, 
We'll  write  the  new  unwritten  name. 

"This  will  we  do  until  the  stars 
Have  flickered  out,  and  ah1  the  bars 

61 


That  shut  man  from  eternal  day 
Are  lifted  up  and  thrown  away." 

Bill  said,  "Tom  Blaylock,  you  has  dared  the  devil, 

Dared  him  an'  beat  him  wit'  a  fist  o'  flame. 

You  does  not  know  what  you  has  done.     The  level 

Path's  mine  now  an'  forever.    By  the  name 

Of  Him  as  made  the  sea,  and  by  the  blue 

Eyes  o'  my  mate  an'  all  the  hurt  I  done 

To  him  an'  others ;  by  the  wrong  done  you ; 

By  all  the  dirty  hellery  an'  fun 

O'  summer  nights  wi'  women,  cards,  an'  rum; 

By  Jesus  Christ  an'  his  apostles,  I 

Will  set  my  course  for  coast  o'  Kingdom  Come.  .  .  , 

God  send  me  to  the  devil  if  I  lie !" 

Then  Bill  went  up  the  fo'c'sle  stair  and  took 
George  Conrad  with  him.     No  man  spoke  a  word. 
We  looked  at  one  another,  as  men  look 
On  sudden  death.    And  then  I  thought  I  heard 
A  sound  of  song.     It  may  have  been  the  light 
Wind  through  the  Lottie's  rigging  and  her  spars, 
But  I  was  sure  it  was  the  harps  of  night 
Heard  by  the  shepherds  on  a  hill  of  stars ! 

For  days  George  Conrad  lay  at  point  of  dying, 
Down  in  Bill's  cabin.     We  went  at  our  work, 
Spite  of  past  failure,  with  the  Lottie  lying 
Nose  to  the  wind  and  nodding  in  the  murk 
Of  foggy  weather.     Somehow  we  had  heart 

62 


For  fishing  as  we  never  fished  before. 
Along  the  black-sea  hollows,  far  apart, 
Our  empty  dories  swung  with  dripping  oar 
And  creaking  gunwales,  till  their  fishers  found 
Cod  for  the  cargo  of  the  Lottie  S. 
Whether  our  luck  changed  or  the  cod  their  ground, 
I  do  not  know,  but  certainly  success — 
So  tardy — came  to  us  at  last.     We  felt 
That  Bill  had  brought  back  fortune  by  his  oath 
And  change  of  heart,  that  moment  when  he  knelt 
Beside  George  Conrad;  so  we  blessed  them  both, 
Nor  thought,  in  all  our  badness,  it  was  strange 
How  fast  the  cod  came.     We  were  well  content, 
Though  missing  George  at  grub-time,  with  our  change 
Of  fortune,  speculated  much  and  spent 
Time  talking  over  Bill's  behavior :     "He'll 
Get  over  it,  a'right,  b'ys,"  one  would  say 
Above  the  gutting  table,  "an'  will  feel 
Fer  hell  ag'in  afore  we  sights  ther  Bay." 
And  then  we'd  laugh  in  answer  and  forget, 
As  men  forget  those  moments  of  a  dream 
In  which  the  soul  sees  all  things  clearly.    Yet 
I  could  not  through  the  laughter  lose  the  gleam 
Transfiguring  Bill  Boram's  stricken  face, 
And  bled  within,  knowing  that  I  betrayed 
By  laughter,  God's  infinitude  of  grace; 
So  turned  aside  in  shame  of  self  and  prayed. 
I  turned  aside  and  prayed  between  the  spars, 
And  then  my  thoughts  were  multitudinous  things 
That  flickered  through  the  rigging  to  the  stars ; 

63 


As  from  a  meadow,  phosphorescent  wings 

Flicker  and  fade  upon  the  clustered  heights 

So  far  above  the  tangle  of  wet  reeds, 

Grass  and  the  creepers.     Yes,  my  thoughts  were  flights 

Of  June  fireflies  that  swarmed  above  my  deeds, 

Gave  them  a  moment  of  their  glory,  then 

Passed  upward  on  their  high  mysterious  path 

That  ends  in  knowledge.    I  could  hear  the  men 

Talking  and  swearing  at  the  tables.    Wrath 

Was  not  in  their  rude  manner,  and  each  oath 

Sounded  a  psalm  of  gradual  degrees, 

As  when  the  Levites  sang  on  Neginoth, 

Going  to  Zion;  their  rough  blasphemies 

Were  mediated  through  God's  heart  of  joy, 

And  coming  that  way  to  me  were  made  clean, 

As  all  things  are  made  clean.     God  is  the  Boy 

Of  love  and  laughter.     God  is  never  seen 

By  those  who  hate  or  snarl  or  sneer  or  frown ; 

God  is  not  heard  by  those  who  have  grown  old; 

God  has  no  sceptre,  throne  nor  jeweled  crown; 

He  is  not  found  on  Fields  of  Cloth  of  Gold 

Where  kings  may  caper  and  their  lords  may  lie: 

God  is  the  gladness  of  a  little  child, 

The  sudden  interest  of  a  baby's  eye, 

God  is  of  life  most  joyously  beguiled. 


Forgive  this  trick  of  my  too  much  delaying. 
Critics  have  talk,  I  know,  about  their  art, 
And  storm  against  the  preaching  and  the  praying 

64 


Of  Browning  and  of  Blake.    They  cry,  "No  part 

Have  we  with  dialectics — be  objective!" 

I  have  my  thoughts  about  all  Pharisees, 

Who  limit  soul  to  form.     Can  God's  perspective 

Grow  in  your  canvas?     Paint  your  clump  of  trees 

And  let  them  be  but  branches,  leaves  and  bark ; 

Leave  out  the  soul,  you  matter-minded  fellows, 

Make  trees  trees,  be  objective,  cold  and  stark — 

Squirt  on  your  mess  of  blues  and  reds  and  yellows ; 

But  let  me  paint  September  goldenrod, 

And  trees,  and  birds,  and  men  and  everything 

As  I  behold  them  in  the  ecstasy  of  God, 

Above  your  chatter  and  your  bickering. 

I  would  not  want  to  write  about  Bill  Boram, 

Were  I  not  held  by  that  which  I  have  seen 

In  him  and  others.     How  could  I  ignore  him, 

By  only  telling?    So  much  lies  between 

Events.     Was  it  not  once  said  long  ago, 

By  one  whose  words  are  life-fermenting  leaven, 

"To  you  within  the  gate  I  give  to  know 

The  secret  of  the  happiness  of  heaven?5* 


Come  back  to  Bill.    What  went  on  in  the  cabin 
Those  days  and  nights  of  nursing?     It  was  said 
By  Oram  Hiltz,  the  mate,  "Begod !  Bill's  grabbin' 
A  holt  on  heaven.     Sure's  hell  he's  off  his  head ! 
Nary  a  cuss  word,  b'ys,  but  like  a  woman 
He  is  with  G'arge.  .  .  .  G'arge  lies  thar  in  Bill's  bunt 
An'  gettin'  fat,  begod !  .  .  .  Don't  know  what's  comin* 

65 


Over  our  Bill.     Somehow  he's  lost  his  spunk, 
Likewise  his  knack  o'  swearin'  .  .  .  Don't  seem  right 
Fer  Bill  ter  be  like  that,  now  does  it,  fellers? 
Yer  knows  that  hook  o'  Bill's,  ther  one  wi'  bright 
Brass  corners,  print  in  greens  an'  reds  an'  yellers? 
Well  he  sits  thar  be  G'arge  and  holds  ther  book 
As  it  wuz  holy,  readin'  erbout  gardens 
An'  sich  stuff.     Every  now  an'  then  he'll  look 
Quite  queer  an'  mutter,  'Master !'  .  .  .  When  hell 

hardens 

Over  wi'  five  foot  o'  ice  an'  thar  is  skatin' 
Ercross  the  bottomless  pit,  I'll  think  it  not 
So  funny  as  our  Bill,  the  son  o'  Satan, 
Turned  angel.  .  .   .  B'ys,  I  tells  yer  this  thing's  got 
Me  on  the  beam  erwash  from  starn  to  scupper  1 
An'  that's  not  all,  fer  G'arge  is  not  ther  same. 
Thar's  times  he  looks  like  Jesus  at  ther  Supper.  .  .  . 
Yer  knows  it,  I  f  ergets  the  painter's  name.   .   .   . 
Some  Dago  done  it  ...  but  begod,  it's  great! 
Well,  that's  what  I've  seen  G'arge  look  like.     His  eyes 
On  Bill  has  onderstandin*.  ...  As  I'm  mate 
O'  this  green  tub,  G'arge  sometimes  looks  so  wise, 
I'd  swear  Lord  Christ  hisself  was  thar  instead 
O'  Coonrad!  .  .  .  Funny,  too,  this  al'uz  happens 
When  Bill  sits  readin'  o'  his  book  wi'  red, 
Green,  yeller  prints  o'  flowers  an'  garden  mappin's!" 

At  first  Bill  came  on  deck  avoiding  us. 
His  word  was  spoken  in  an  even  tone. 
He  did  not  any  longer  foam  and  fuss 

66 


And  rage  and  swear.     His  face  was  like  a  stone 

For  lack  of  feeling,  and  his  gaze  went  past 

Our  curious  eyes,  as  he  walked  down  and  up 

His  quarter-deck,  or  leaned  against  the  mast, 

Sucking  a  pipe  with  bowl  big  as  a  cup 

And  filled  with  cut  Macdonald's.    Though  we  muttered 

Between  ourselves  and  watched  him  standing  there, 

We  dared  not  speak  to  Bill,  so  left  unuttered 

Our  idle  words.    We  felt  the  power  of  prayer 

Upon  Bill  Boram  had  set  his  soul  afire 

With  terrible  torment  that  would  last  until 

God  had  destroyed  the  devil  of  desire 

To  ghostly  ashes  in  the  heart  of  Bill. 

The  man's  pride  made  him  lonely,  made  him  mute. 

He  knew  that  there  was  laughter,  there  was  scorn, 

At  him  among  the  men.    He  knew  the  brute 

He  gave  them  waited  now  with  lowered  horn 

Or  dripping  tusk.     He  knew  that  he  must  meet 

The  bull  and  lion  with  the  bleeding  lamb. 

He  knew  salvation  would  not  be  complete 

Till  Was  and  Will-Be  had  become  I  Am! 

George  Conrad  came  back  painfully  to  health, 
For  Bill  had  almost  killed  him  with  the  kick 
He  gave  him  underneath  his  heart.     With  wealth 
Of  tenderness,  amazing  us,  the  thick 
Hard  hands  of  Boram  paid  in  full  the  score 
Writ  down  against  him  by  the  pen  of  God. 
Bill's  drug-kit  slowly  emptied  of  its  store 
Of  arnica  and  bandages  and  odd 

67 


Assortments  of  quinine  and  rhubarb  root; 
For  George  had  fever  and  he  raved  of  things 
That  live  on  horror — bat-like  things  that  loot 
Their  prey  in  darkness — forms  of  fangs  and  stings. 

All  this  the  mate  told  us  from  time  to  time, 
And  well  we  listened  'neath  the  fo'c'sle  lamps. 
He  told  how  George  saw  scaly  monsters  climb 
Out  of  the  clock  and  cried,  "Them  beasties  champs 
Ther  bloody  jaws  at  me!"     Once  in  the  bevel 
Of  Bill's  round  mirror,  in  a  deep  red  glow, 
George  said  he  saw  a  short-horned  bull-faced  devil 
With  harpoon  tail  and  hoof-like  cloven  toe. 
"An'  strangest  part  o'  all  this  rage  an5  ravin', 
Is  Bill's — our  Bill's — peculiar  way  wi'  him. 
It  makes  no  difference  how  G'arge  is  behavin', 
Bill's  like  a  woman  wit'  a  baby's  whim!" 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  then  we  had  our  wish — 
Full  cargo;  for  the  Lottie's  water  line 
Was  now  well  down ;  she  floundered,  like  a  fish 
Caught  in  the  shallows  where  the  kelp-stalks  shine, 
And  blown  about  the  belly.    Half  a  gale 
Had  hit  the  Banks  and  blackened  all  the  sea 
That  broke  in  wisps  of  white,  when  we  set  sail 
For  harbor  and  for  home.     How  merrily, 
The  capstan  squealed  and  cluttered  with  the  chains 
Coiling  below  the  hatch,  as  we  went  round 
Singing  against  the  anchor!     Chantey-strains 
Were  lifted  from  our  throats:     "The   Ship's  Home- 
bound"  ; 

68 


"'Tis  when  you're  out  to  sea,  my  boys"  .  .  .  "Boston"  .  . . 
"The  Crew  of  the  Sary  Ann"  .  .  .  "Here's  hell-fer- 

blazes"  .  .   . 
"The  Lowlands  Low"  .  .  .  "The  Captain's  Gall" 

.  .  .  "Lost  on 

The  Lady  Elgin"  .  .  .  "Sink  the  Cook  that  Lazes"— 
This  last  I  wrote  and  taught  the  men  to  sing 
At  George's  cost,  when,  drinking  at  The  Belle, 
We  taunted  him  with  our  bull-bellowing 
Of  fog-horn  voices  from  the  throats  of  hell. 

Bill  stood  abaft  the  wheel  and  urged  us  on 
In  his  old-time  deep  thunder,  but  his  words 
Commanded — there  were  now  no  oaths.     The  dawn 
Rose  with  the  Lottie's  sails  that  flashed  like  birds 
In  flight  down  green-comb  hollows  off  the  shore. 
Close  on  the  wind,  the  Lottie  met  the  blast 
Cold  from  the  North,  wallowed,  then  filled  and  bore 
Away  on  her  long  tack.     The  men  made  fast 
Her  hatches,  cleared  the  decks  and  roped  their  dories 
In  tiers  of  three  along  her  bulwarks,  then 
Began  their  lilting  chanties — old  song-stories 
Of  black-eyed  Susans  and  their  sailor  men. 
The  sun  was  like  a  scimiter  within 
Its  sultan's  pearl-gray  sash ;  changed  and  became 
A  monstrance  lifted  by  a  priest  for  sin, 
High  over  heads  bowed  at  the  Holy  Name. 
Down  her  far  path  of  silver  sunrise-glow, 
The  Lottie  poured,  her  snapping  topsails  set 
Above  a  bellying  of  drifted  snow — 

69 


Main,  foresail,  jib — her  sheeted  canvas  wet 

With  white  spume  from  her  yellow  bowsprit  flying. 

She  seemed  homesick  for  havens  far  away — 

The  curving  Cove  beneath  the  red  roofs  lying 

Within  the  Ledge  that  barriers  the  Bay. 

She  seemed  to  dance  and  sing  upon  the  sea, 

Like  some  brown  wind-blown  breathless  fisher  lass 

Who  runs  to  meet  her  man,  expectantly 

And  mad  for  kisses,  when  the  white  sails  pass 

Down  avenues  of  wharves  until  they  home 

At  anchor.     Hers  was  such  a  haste  of  love 

That  one  could  feel  her  tremble  through  the  foam, 

Her  wild  soul  singing  as  she  swayed  above 

Green  hills  and  hollows  of  gray  horizons 

Of  water  ridged  with  sudden  crests  of  snow. 

She  seemed  a  queen,  and  we  her  myrmidons, 

Of  some  lost  empire  in  the  long  ago. 

I  think  the  Lottie's  spirit  spoke  to  Bill 
And  gave  him 'comfort:  wild  met  with  the  wild, 
Strong  with  the  strong,  laughter  with  laughter,  till 
Joy  like  the  gladness  of  a  little  child 
Shone  in  his  eyes  and  took  the  downward  curve 
Out  of  his  mouth.     This  much  we  saw, 
Yet  dared  not  speak  to  him.     We  sought  to  serve 
Our  captain  in  a  thousand  things,  but  awe 
Of  what  had  happened  held  us  by  an  arm 
More  terrible  than  steel.     We  still  had  hope 
That  when  we  made  port,  Bill  would  find  the  charm 
Of  Kate  and  cards,  and  all  the  dirty  dope 

70 


With  which  we  soiled  ourselves,  potent  as  ever; 
So  waited  with  a  growing  grin  and  nod, 
And  pledged  ourselves  to  uttermost  endeavor 
Of  getting  Bill  out  of  the  hands  of  God — 
God?    He  stood  in  the  way  of  our  intent, 
And  so  we  hated  Him.    God  wanted  Bill — 
Well  then,  let  God  see  to  it,  circumvent 
Us  if  He  could ;  since  God  gave  man  a  will, 
Man  must  forever  be  in  full  rebellion. 
Against  God,  though  he  pay  eternal  pain, 
And  offer  up  himself  to  every  hellion 
Lest  he  adore  The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain ! 

And  what  of  me — the  man  who  writes  this  story? 
Strange  that  I  saw  so  much  and  failed  the  vision, 
Strange  that  my  moment  of  the  mystic  glory 
Faded  above  the  Valley  of  Decision ! 
Yet  it  is  told  how  Christ  came  down  the  hill 
With  beauty  on  his  white  transfigured  face, 
And  John  and  James  and  Peter  could  not  still 
The  raving  of  a  child,  though  Jesu's  grace 
Had  shone  forth  through  his  garments  on  their  sight; 
So  hard  it  was  for  them  to  use  that  power 
Which  comes  in  morning  moments  on  the  height. 
It  is  not  easy  to  retain  the  hour 
Of  God  in  gardens  or  the  mountain  peak ; 
The  soul  that  trembles  to  a  perfect  tone, 
Aches  ever  after  and  is  doomed  to  seek 
Until  that  moment  has  been  made  its  own. 
So  I  was  struggling  in  that  binding  mesh — 

71 


Desire — which  custom  throws  to  catch  the  spirit, 
Then  chokes  it  with  the  fingers  of  the  flesh; 
I  wanted  heaven,  yet  dreaded  to  draw  near  it. 

The  days  went  by,  of  many  kinds  of  weather : 
Days  that  were  dull  with  smothering  of  fog 
Through  which  the  Lottie,  driving  hell-for-leather, 
Howled  with  her  horn  like  any  lonely  dog ; 
Days  that  were  sunshine  on  a  sea  of  beryl; 
Days  that  were  dirty  with  wet  gusty  squalls 
Heaving  the  schooner  over;  days  of  peril, 
When  Bill  stood  at  the  wheel  in  overalls 
And  slicker,  holding  the  Lottie  to  the  wind, 
Close  reefed,  and  taking  in  the  sea  so  fast 
We  had  to  work  the  pumps  until  we  skinned 
Our  fingers  to  the  bone ;  the  danger  past, 
We  tumbled  down  the  fo'c'sle,  yelled  for  George, 
Who,  being  healed,  returned  that  he  might  serve 
Old  savory  dishes  that  we  loved  to  gorge — 
Fish  chowder,  plum  duff,  dumplings — his  chef- 
d'oeuvre — 

Washed  down  with  coffee.     No  one  thought  to  tease 
George.     Bill  had  spoken  once  for  him  to  us. 
He  spoke  in  such  a  manner  as  to  freeze 
Blood  in  your  heart  to  hear  twice,  made  no  fuss, 
Said  merely,  "Men,  who  mocks  this  man  mocks  me!" 
And  turned  his  back  without  another  word. 

George  came  back  to  the  fo'c'sle  suddenly, 
The  night  the  laboring  Lottie  nearly  foundered ; 

72 


Her  topmast  went  and  then  her  foresail  split 

And  left  her  helpless — how  she  threshed  and  floundered, 

While  we  worked  in  the  dark  deep  as  the  pit 

Of  Tophet !  With  the  break  of  day  was  change 

Of  wind,  and  we,  all  wan  and  hungry,  went 

Down  fo'c'sle;  there  was  George  before  his  range, 

And  with  hot  chowder,  ready  for  the  spent 

Poor  fellows  who  could  only  look  their  thought 

And  their  amazement.     After  that  came  Bill — 

Haggard,  remote  but  stern,  and  said,  "I've  brought 

You  back  my  mate ;  let  no  man  do  him  ill," 

And  added,  "Men,  who  mocks  this  man,  mocks  me!" 

So  George  came  back  to  serve  us  as  of  old; 

And  in  his  eyes  a  most  sweet  mystery 

Of  love  grew,  like  a  shepherd's  for  the  fold. 

Bill's  word  was  like  a  sword  of  fire  that  moved 
Forever  up  and  down  between  the  cook 
And  his  old-time  tormentors,  and  it  proved 
Sufficient  safeguard  for  his  friend ;  the  look 
In  Bill's  eyes  when  he  spoke  and  turned  away 
Was  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  that  same  sword. 
Besides  the  grub  was  good.    No  one  could  say 
Aught  against  George's  cooking.    When  he  poured 
Coffee  for  us  it  was  like  paschal  wine, 
And  when  hot  biscuits  were  upon  the  plate, 
New  brotherhood  began,  and  me  and  mine 
Were  lost  in  you  and  yours.    Love  did  create 
God  in  the  sacrament  of  drink  and  bread; 
And  through  the  Lottie's  creaking  deck  there  came 

73 


Once  more,  anointing  every  humble  head, 
The  heart-red  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame! 

These  things  we  knew  not  then,  but  after  time 
Led  us  to  understanding.     Some  few  felt 
Power  in  George.     A  light  that  was  sublime 
Shone  from  his  eyes.    We  knew  him  when  he  knelt 
To  feed  his  fire,  for  he  was  like  a  saint 
Whom  glory  haloes.     Something  in  his  face 
Belonged  to  fire  that  purifies  the  taint 
Of  Adam's  sin  and  leaves  instead  Christ's  grace. 
Strangest  of  all,  his  reedy  gander  voice 
Changed  to  a  lovely  sound.     The  foolish  chin 
Was  now  no  longer  vapid — purpose,  choice, 
Decision  made  it  royal.     From  within 
Something  mysterious  and  beautiful 
Looked  forth,  molded  the  man  and  made  of  him 
One  who  was  lordly  and  most  masterful — 
As  one  who  walks  at  ease  with  seraphim. 

"His  Arctic  loneliness  has  turned  his  head!" 
Will  one  say?     Then  I  answer  back,  "My  friend, 
Have  you  not  met  the  resurrected  dead? 
They  walk  now  in  your  streets,  and  they  ascend 
From  Olivets  that  rise  beyond  your  wall. 
The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  may  turn 
You  any  moment  from  the  burial 
Of  old  dead  selves  in  some  ancestral  urn, 
To  meet  His  gladness  grouped  about  by  lilies 
In  long  lost  gardens  found  by  you  again, 

74 


That  He  may  tell  you  what  God's  holy  will  is, 
And  send  you  forth  for  singing  songs  to  men — 
Songs  of  the  soul  that  lives  and  never  dies ; 
Songs  of  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  royal  sun; 
Songs  of  the  angels  shouting  in  the  skies 
For  all  that  God,  the  Lord  of  life,  has  done. 
Why  will  you  scrabble  on  the  earth  for  straws, 
And  ache  for  beauty  in  a  mirrored  face? 
Your  soul  is  worth  more  than  the  hips  and  haws 
For  which  you  sell  it  in  the  market  place. 
I  say  your  souPs  the  only  worthy  thing, 
That  you  are  here  to  demonstrate  its  worth ; 
And  every  beggar  is  an  uncrowned  king 
More  royal  than  the  emperors  of  earth. 
I  say  that  there  is  nothing  in  Lord  God 
That  is  not  beating  bravely  in  your  heart ; 
He  made  you  in  His  likeness  from  the  clod, 
And  you  are  Christ's  eternal  counterpart. 


The  sun  was  standing  over  Scander  Shoals 
When  we  drove  past  the  roaring  -ledge  that  bars 
Bay  Scander  from  The  Cove.     Under  bare  poles, 
Bill  sent  the  Lottie  to  The  Belle  with  jars 
That  shook  her  to  the  kelson  as  she  struck 
The  splintered  spruce  piles,  while  her  hawsers  flew 
Like  loons  above  lake  water.    Johnny  Tuck 
Stood  ready  on  the  wharf  to  catch  and  clew 
The  hawsers  as  they  came,  helped  by  Jim  Snair 
Who  always  hobbled  down  in  time  to  fill 

75 


A  pipe  from  my  tobacco.     "Make  fast,  there," 
Came  up  so  quietly  to  them  from  Bill 
That  Johnny  gaped  and  said,  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 
And  Jim  looked  at  him  from  the  derrick  beam 
Stared,  coughed  and  spit  and  said,  "Well,  I'll  be 

damned !" 

They  were  as  men  who  babble  in  a  dream, 
For  they  were  wont  to  hear  Bill  laying  out 
In  thundered  blasphemies  at  God  and  men, 
As  he  brought  up  the  Lottie  to  the  stout 
Piles  of  the  Belle  Mahone,  so  wondered,  when 
Bill  spoke  them  calmly.     They  were  first  to  know 
Of  Bill's  conversion,  and  the  first  to  tell 
Kate  Coolin  and  the  girls  dolled  up  to  show 
The  Lottie's  crew  the  broad  highroad  to  hell. 

"Bill's  split  his  tops'ls,  b'ys,"  Kate  Coolin  giggled, 
"I'll  mend  them  fo'  him,  jest  you  neva'  fear. 
He'll  be  a'right  to-night  when  he  has  wriggled 
A  hoochie  koochie,  afta  rum  an'  beer !" 
And  so  they  cackled  like  a  lot  of  hens 
Back  in  the  barnyard,  while  Bill  and  the  cook 
Stood  on  the  hill  and  listened  to  the  wrens 
And  robins  in  the  trees  that  overlook 
Bill's  garden  and  his  house.     Twilight  was  down, 
In  filmy  lilac  laces,  on  The  Cove, 
And  dancing  over  fish-wharves  gray  and  brown. 
The  steeple  in  the  distance,  held  above 
The  house  reek  and  the  roofs  the  brave  appeal 
Of  Christ  our  Saviour,  glorious  with  gold. 

76 


The  cross  against  the  sky  was  like  a  seal 

Upon  a  purple  page  for  them  unrolled, 

And  written  with  the  promise  of  new  life 

That  they  must  live  forever  who  had  found, 

Out  of  old  sorrow,  bitterness  and  strife, 

Christ  in  their  love  of  beauty  from  the  ground. 

So  had  Christ  come  to  them  in  love  of  flowers,     \ 

For  Christ  lies  hidden  in  the  things  we  find. 

He  comes  down  shouting  with  the  April  showers ; 

He  leaps  up  with  the  lilies  and  their  kind — 

Those  spears  of  flame  that  burn  up  through  the  sod, 

Like  little  tongues  of  many  colored  fire, 

And  is  at  one  with  what  goes  up  to  God 

In  hearts  that  beat  with  mystical  desire. 

Christ  is  God's  ecstasy  of  pure  creation, 

He  is  the  artist  in  the  soul  of  things, 

The  miracle  of  magical  elation 

That  from  creative  impulse  ever  springs. 

He  who  would  know  Christ  must  have  done  with  pray 
ing* 

Go  forth  and  find  him  where  the  tangled  vines  are, 

Meet  him  on  hilltops  where  the  winds  are  playing, 

Or  in  the  woods  where  hemlock,  spruce  and  pines  are. 

He  haunts  all  rivers  and  the  back  still  waters, 

Inlets  of  lakes  and  their  tree-sheltered  islands. 

Christ  runs  with  logs  that  roar  down  dark  mill  waters, 

Until  the  great  boom  their  last  wet  mad  mile  ends. 

Christ  comes  through  fog  that  weaves  above  The 
Scander, 

His  wings  spread  straightly  up  and  down  the  sky 

77 


Made  blue  for  him;  for  Christ  is  the  Commander 

Of  wind  and  sea  and  land,  of  things  that  fly 

Or  creep  or  grow.     Christ  is  creative  art, 

The  touch  of  God  that  gives  existence  soul, 

Who  is  identified  with  every  part 

Of  Nature,  and  yet  crowns,  completes  the  whole. 


PART    THREE 

"A  brute  I  might  have  been  but  would  not  sink 
i*  the  scale." 

— Robert  Browning. 


PART    THREE 

Vainly  did  Kate  dance  down  beside  the  Lottie 
The  night  that  Bill  and  George  went  hillward  home; 
Vainly  she  raved,  "B'ys,  th'  ol'  man  has  gone  dottie ! 
Come  on,  let's  go  ta  him  an'  let  us  show  'm 
We  does  not  give  a  damn."     Each  shook  his  head, 
Looked  longingly  at  Bill's  close  shuttered  loft, 
And  thought  of  nights  that  were  forever  dead. 
Kate  sneered,  "The  hull  bunch  o'  you  fella's  soft — 
Let's  leave  'em,  girls,  they  has  become  old  women !" 
She  tossed  her  wild  flamboyant  hair  and  curved 
Her  red  mouth  at  us.     "Yes,  they  is  old  women 
Fit  fo'  tha  company  o'  cats.     Bill's  served 
'Em  dirty  an'  they  has  not  got  tha  grit 
To  stand  ag'in  him."    Then  she  turned  aside 
And  left  us  wondering.     No  man  saw  fit 
To  follow  Kate  in  her  hot  angry  pride. 
We  stood  beside  the  Lottie,  at  The  Belle, 
And  counselled  what  we  thought  we'd  better  do. 
Some  were  for  going  back  to  Bill's  and  tell 
What  Kate  had  said,  urging,  "0,  he'll  come  through 
Wi'  rum  an'  cards,  now  that  he's  home  again." 
But  most  of  us  were  hopeless,  said,  "No  use — 

81 


Bill's  changed — We'll  have  to  hang  together,  men — * 
Let's  go  to  Foxey  Doolin's  an'  cut  loose." 

In  days  that  followed,  working,  at  the  flakes, 

Bill  kept  us  busy  till  the  cod  were  dried ; 

He  spoke  us  kindly,  said,  "B'ys,  for  your  sakes, 

I  wants  to  keep  the  Lottie  an'  divide 

Her  cargoes  wit'  you ;  but  I  goes  no  more 

A  sailin' — I  is  done  wi'  that.    The  patch, 

An'  what  I  has  already  saved  in  store 

For  rainy  weather,  my  share  o'  the  catch, 

Will  keep  me  from  the  poorhouse.     Make  the  mate 

Your  captain,  let  Tom  Blaylock  have  his  place; 

I'll  work  at  home,  my  men,  for  you  an'  wait 

Your  comin'  back  again  through  Scander  Race." 

So  while  we  sailed  away  Bill  made  The  Belle 
A  house  of  happiness.     He  cleaned  the  floor 
And  washed  the  walls  until  the  evil  smell 
That  lingered  there  was  now  at  last  no  more. 
He  opened  up  the  loft  and  let  the  rafters 
Arch  over  wide  and  window-lighted  space 
That  gave  the  room  a  feeling  of  sweet  laughters 
Called  thither  by  compulsion  of  its  grace. 
"For  every  dirty  deed  done  here  by  me," 
Bill  said  to  George,  "I'll  give  back  beauty,  till 
This  house  o'  lies  an'  lust  has  come  to  be 
Called  'House  o'  Joy.'  '     George  answered,  "Yer  right, 
Bill." 

82 


These  things  took  place  when  we  were  on  The  Banks, 
And  later  heard  from  Bill  and  George  and  Bob. 
Meanwhile  She  Weasle's  rubber-booted  shanks 
Failed  not  their  mistress ;  busy  on  the  job 
Of  taking  her  from  door  to  door,  they  spread 
News  of  the  doings  down  below  the  hill. 
"Bill  Boram's  jist  gone  crazy  in  his  head, 
De  vay  he's  doin'  tings.     Say  vat  ya  vill, 
De  Old  Nick  has  him  an'  dat  feller  G'arge. 
Dey's  taken  all  de  barrels  an'  de  barrers 
Out  uv  De  Belle.     I  hears  dey  has  a  large 
Polpit  fer  preachin' — 'tink  o'  dat !  Hell  harrers 
De  ground  an'  Bill  an'  G'arge  comes  a'ter  sowin'! 
Does  pa'son  know  dese  doin's?     I'll  tell  him  den.  *  . 
Sorry,  me  child,  can't  stay — I  must  be  goin'.  .  .  . 
Pete  Snyder's  drunk  an'  beat  his  wife  ergen." 

Across  The  Cove  Kate  hid  her  pride  and  jeered. 
She  said  to  Babbie  Daniels,  her  best  cronie, 
"I  knowed  'at  it  w'u'd  come  ta  Bill — he's  queered 
Our  fun  wi'  all  his  foolin'  .  .  .  Bab,  if  on'y 
We'd  git  Bill  drunk!" 

At  first,  old  Bobby  Fox 
Was  puzzled,  then  he  came  to  understand 
What  happened  unto  Bill  and  George — their  talks 
With  him  soon  made  things  clear.     He  gave  his  hand 
To  each  and  said,  "Boys,  this  is  nothing  new — 
God  rises  up  in  us  like  sap  in  trees — 
But  how  you  must  have  paralyzed  the  crew! 

83 


You  got  the  Holy  Ghost  upon  the  seas ; 

Though  I'm  agnostic,  that  I  must  confess. 

You're  changed  all  right  and  have  been  cured  o'  fault 

By  something  more  than  human,  Bill,  I  guess — 

You  sound  as  if  you  had  been  reading  Walt." 

And  Bill  replied,  "I  never  read  a  book 

'Cept  mine  o*  Botany.     I  does  not  care 

For  all  that  po'try  stuff.     Give  me  one  look 

On  things  like  marigold  an'  maidenhair, 

An'  I'll  get  more  o'  beauty  than  the  whole 

Lot  o'  them  rhymin'  fellers  ever  saw. 

Bob,  I  found  this  at  last :    Things  has  their  soul 

Which  hides  from  us,  accordin'  to  the  law 

O'  beauty,  as  a  woman  hides  each  breast, 

But  gives  'em  freely  to  the  lips  she  loves. 

Bad  as  I  wuz,  one  thing  in  me  wuz  best  — 

The  thoughts  that  come  aflutter  like  the  doves, 

When  I  bent  over  flowers,  touched  the  grass 

Or  lay  at  night  a-listenin*  to  trees. 

Things  know'd  I  loved  'em,  so  it  come  to  pass 

That  beauty  beat  me  bloody  on  the  seas.'* 

Bob  answered,  "Certain  as  the  sea  is  salt, 
You've  had  your  vision ;  but  you  do  not  know 
That  all  you  feel  was  felt  and  writ  by  Walt. 
He  footed  down  the  highroad  heel  and  toe, 
Dancing  his  joy  of  beauty  into  words 
Of  tumult  loud  as  old  Niagara  Falls, 
Or  softer  than  the  little  flights  of  birds 

84 


At  feeding  time.     The  whole  creation  calls 
Through  Walt.     The  stars  are  tangled  in  his  beard. 
He  makes  the  moon  his  flappy  wide-brimmed  hat. 
He  wears  the  blue  sky  for  a  cloak.     Men  sneered 
At  Walt.     Some  argued  this  and  others  that. 
But  all  the  while  they  snorted,  squealed  and  chattered, 
Walt  went  his  way.    He  had  no  time  to  tarry, 
The  seed  of  God  was  in  his  hand;  he  scattered 
Widely  and  well  until  the  world  was  starry." 

Bill  stared  before  he  answered,  stroked  his  chin, 
And  pondered:  "Must  'a  been  a  man  like  me, 
Saved  from  a  load  o'  lust  an*  dirty  sin 
By  gettin'  through  the  door;  for,  Bob,  you  see, 
That's  what's  the  matter  wi'  the  world — the  door 
Shets  on  it.     They's  a  door  a'right — I  knows 
That  much — it  shets  men  out  from  seein'  more 
Than  they  is  able.     No  one  ever  goes 
Beyont  this  door  until  the  time  is  come. 
This  door  can't  be  kicked  open.    You  must  stand 
An'  wait  your  turn.     No  use  to  knock.     They's  some 
Who  taps  an'  taps  an5  taps  wi'  gentle  hand; 
They's  some  who  knocks  in  quite  a  Jmowin'  way ; 
They's  some  who  kicks  an'  bangs ;  it  ain't  no  use, 
The  door  stays  shet.    You  can't  get  through  for  pay. 
You  can't  pass  wit'  a  ticket.    They's  no  loose 
J'int  in  the  panels  for  the  peakin'  eye. 
The  door  stays  shet  to  preachin'  an'  to  prayin'. 
I  hears  folks  singin'  ;In  the  Sweet  Bye-an'-Bye,* 
But  they'll  get  left  like  stubble  after  hayin'; 

85 


They  ain't  no  Bye-an'-Bye  upon  a  shore 

All  silver  as  wi'  sand;  they's  Here-an'-Here, 

Waitin'  for  'em  as  passes  through  the  door, 

An'  only  then  they'll  read  their  title  clear. 

The  door  was  shet  on  me  an'  I  wuz  bad 

Bill  Boram.     Times  an'  times  I  heard  an'  seen 

Sounds  an'  fair  sights  as  through  a  fog.     I  had 

A  compass — love  o'  flowers  an'  the  green 

O*  grass  an'  leaves — it  kept  me  on  the  course; 

But  al'uz  it  wuz  fog.     I  knowed  somewhere 

The  land  lay,  but  it  wuz  no  use  to  force 

A  passage  through  the  rocks.     I  did  not  dare 

To  make  the  harbor  till  the  fog  wuz  lifted. 

But  oh  them  sights  an'  sounds!     They  tempted  me. 

They  wuz  like  yaller  dust  o'  gold  that's  sifted 

From  tons  o'  dirt.     Strange  how  it  comes  to  be 

True  of  all  precious  things,  that  man  must  earn 

Afore  he  spends !     So  I  went  on  an'  raised 

Hell  till  my  moment  come.     I  used  to  turn 

My  back  on  beauty.     Sometimes  I  wuz  dazed, 

An'  run  amuck  o'  life,  did  what  I  could 

To  damn  my  soul  an'  body;  but  the  sight 

An'  sound  o*  beauty  looped  me  like  a  good 

Hemp  hawser  loops  a  pile.    Mornin'  an'  night, 

Somethin'  held  on  hard  a'ter  me,  until 

I,  who  wuz  counted  worst  o'  men,  an'  swore, 

Drank,  gambled,  lusted,  sudden  heard  a  still 

Voice  say,  'Bill  Boram,  go  an'  sin  no  more !'  " 


86 


That  autumn,  we  came  back  and  found  The  Belle 

All  beautiful  with  paint  and  window  flowers. 

The  roof  was  red,  the  walls  were  white,  and — well, 

We  did  not  know  the  place  of  evil  hours 

That  we  once  knew.     A  narrow  gangway  ran 

Left  of  the  Lottie's  mooring  post  and  met 

Bill's  new  road  round  the  shore.    It  was  his  plan 

To  make  the  lower  log  house  that  was  set 

Above  the  rocks  a  storeroom  for  the  fish. 

"Can't  have  no  more  o'  them  smells  here,"  he  said. 

"More  work  for  all  you  fellers,  but  my  wish 

Must  be  obeyed."    We  grumbled,  nodded  head, 

Winked  eye,  thumbed  over  shoulder,  bit  a  chew 

Of  blackjack,  stared  at  Bill  and  thought  him  crazy. 

It  seemed  a  foolish  thing  for  us  to  do 

As  Bill  commanded ;  and,  then,  we  were  lazy. 

"What !  cart  ther  cargo  o'  the  Lottie  S. 

In  barrers  all  that  distance?     I'll  be  damned !" 

"What's  come  ter  Bill?" 

"Dunno." 

"Sunstroke,  I  guess." 

"Th'  oP  shack's  too  small,  o*  course,  an'  will  be 

crammed 

Ter  bustin'  .  .  .  ain't  no  room  below  fer  flakes.  .  .  . 
A  hell  o'  time  we'll  have  a  dryin'  cod!" 

Kate  rowed  past,  laughing,  "Well,  fo'  tha  land  sakes, 
Look  at  them  fellas  f etchin'  fish,  begod !" 

87 


With  all  our  grumbling  and  our  oaths  at  Bill, 

We  did  as  we  were  told.    We  worked  that  day 

Unloading  cargo,  hardly  stopped  to  fill 

A  pipe  or  bite  a  chew.     The  long  gangway 

Was  slippery  beneath  our  oily  feet 

That  tramped  between  the  Lottie  and  the  shack. 

With  barely  room  for  carriers  to  meet, 

We  strained,  slipped,  swore,  unloaded,  then  came  back. 

At  last  when  day  was  ending,  and  The  Cove 

Gleamed  like  an  opal  on  a  woman's  throat, 

Bill  gathered  us  together;  stood  above 

Our  heads  upon  the  bottom  of  a  boat 

Turned  gunwale  down  for  painting  at  The  Belle, 

And  said,  "Men,  I  has  words  to  say  to  you. 

You  thinks  I'm  crazy.     Some  o'  you  can't  tell 

Jist  what  you  thinks.     Old  things  has  changed  to  new, 

An'  you  all  hates  the  change.     They  ain't  no  more 

Rum  in  the  loft  wi'  playin'  cards  an'  tables ; 

They  ain't  no  dancin'  on  a  dirty  floor, 

An'  fightin'  for  a  woman's  mouth;  the  cable's 

Cut  an'  no  man  c'n  splice  it,  that  is  sartin ; 

But  I  has  somethin'  better'n  what  is  gone — 

Come  round  to-night,  men — now  is  time  for  partin* — 

Come  round  to-night,  an'  see  what's  goin'  on." 

So  when  the  stars  from  their  high  heavenly  places 
Leaned  over  the  blue  edge  of  that  deep  abyss 
We  call  the  sky,  to  contemplate  their  faces 
Mirrored  within  The  Cove  whose  waters  kiss 
The  saw-toothed  rocks  of  roaring  Scander  Ledge, 

88 


Bill's  company  came.    We  came  with  oaths  and 

laughter 

That  signified  rum — brown  as  frost-bit  sedge 
That  grows  above  The  Belle ;  we  came  on  after 
The  drinks  were  done,  with  felt  hats  tilted  back, 
Hands  in  pants-pockets,  swaggering  to  show 
Our  ease  of  manners,  though  the  sudden  crack 
O'  doom  should  sound  for  us  to  go  below. 

The  Belle  was  lit  with  lanterns — Chinese  kind 
That  swayed  in  splendor  high  among  the  rafters 
From  ropes  through  pulleys.    It  was  hard  to  find 
Two  lanterns  like ;  they  shone  with  loves  and  laughters. 
Long  rows  of  ordered  benches  stood  in  aisles — 
Benches  with  sloping  backs,  made  from  spruce  deal — 
Before  a  platform  that  was  sweet  with  piles 
Of  potted  ferns  and  flowers;  one  could  feel 
The  spirit  of  those  flowers  in  the  air, 
A  pure  invisible  and  welcome  comer 
Whose  beauty  haunted  us  like  Helen's  hair 
That  haunts  the  far-away  dim  hills  of  summer. 

Bill  stood  within  the  door  and  gave  a  hand 
To  each  of  us,  saying,  "B'ys,  come  take  a  seat. 
That  you,  Tom?  .  .  .  Here's  Jake!  .  .  .  Jimmy!  .  .  . 

Ain't  it  grand 

To  have  the  b'ilin'  o'  you !  .  .  .     Hullo,  Pete, 
You  ol'  tarpaulin !  .   .  .  G'arge,  look  who's  here — Jack 
Barkhouse  from  No'th  East !  .  .  .  Johnny  wit'  his 

fiddle! 


Come  right  in,  Johnny — glad  to  see  you  back 
From  Coffin  Island.  .  .  .  Gettin'  fat  o'  middle, 
Sam  Publicover,  pump  the  bellows  more, 
An'  start  redoocin' — quit  the  po'try  stuff!  .  .  . 
Here's  sight  for  sore  eyes — gran'ther  Jellenore!  . 
Say,  guess  this  room's  not  nearly  big  enough." 

So  Bill  met  us,  and  George  was  standing  by 
All  joy,  and  shaking  hands  and  saying,  "Now 
Ain't  I  reel  glad  ter  see  yer!  .  .  .  seems  as  I 
Can't  get  ernuff  o'  gladness,  anyhow." 
Just  words — poor  words — but  on  his  happy  face 
There  shone  such  dignity  of  man  divine, 
We  felt  a  stranger-presence  in  that  place, 
Like  Him  Who  turned  the  water  into  wine. 
We  felt  and  wondered  and  were  overwhelmed 
By  beauty  and  by  love  and  laughter,  too, 
As,  when  Sir  Lohengrin,  whom  Arthur  helmed, 
Came  to  Brabant,  the  happy  people  knew 
An  overwhelming  wonder.    All  our  brag 
And  bluster  blended  into  fine  dismay 
Of  what  we  saw  and  heard.    A  great  white  flag 
Festooned  the  platform  table.     To  this  day, 
The  picture  has  not  dimmed,  of  Bobby  Fox 
At  ease  behind  the  table  in  the  chair 
He  occupied  at  Bill's.     His  tangled  locks 
Were  combed.     His  beard — a  silver  foam  of  hair- 
Fell  halfway  down  his  breast  and  almost  hid 
The  silver  buttons  on  his  frilled  white  front. 
Gaping,  we  sat — not  knowing  what  we  did — 

90 


Forgetful  of  the  oaths  that  were  our  wont. 

Then  Bobby  rose,  pulled  at  his  beard,  and  spoke. 

I  have  no  memory  of  what  he  said. 

I  know  that  never  sound  that  silence  broke, 

Zoned  by  his  words,  silence,  the  coveted 

Possession  of  pure  thought.     He  led  us  on 

From  plain  to  peak  of  that  adventure  shared 

By  God  and  man ;  told  of  the  distant  dawn— 

Blood-red  above  the  frozen  fire — that  flared 

Along  horizons  of  massed  ice  and  snow ; 

Told  us  of  man's  emergence  from  the  beast, 

Of  those  first  moments  when  his  spirit's  flow, 

Poured  forth  in  words  of  prophet  and  of  priest.: 

He  made  us  see  the  working  of  the  law, 

Until  he  had  us  cheering,  "Go  it,  Bob!"  .  .   . 

"We  likes   this   stuff."  .  .  .  "You're   Johnny   on   the 

jaw!"  .  .  . 
"Damned,  but  'e  talks  as  if  'e  knowed  'is  job!"  .  .  . 

When  Bob  was  done,  Bill  stood  and  spoke  to  us : 
"B'ys,  I  knowed  you'd  like  Fox's  booky  stuff, 
An'  I  perposes  that  we  at  once  discuss 
Plans  for  our  nights  when  winds  is  rough, 
An'  we  has  made  it  cozy  in  The  Belle 
Wi'  lots  o*  lamps  an'  books  an'  magerzines 
An'  papers.  .  .  .  Come,  cut  loose  an'  break  the  spell 
O*  silence.    Fox  has  knocked  to  smithereens 
Them  fables  that  made  Bible  a  poor  book, 
An'  opened  wide  the  pages  o'  the  sky 

91 


For  all  to  read.     There's  lots  to  talk.     Here's  cook — 
He'll  tell  you  things  you  never  knowed  nor  I.'* 

Then  George  came  on  the  platform  as  we  cheered. 

He  looked  at  us.     He  held  us  with  his  eyes. 

He  spoke:     "I  never  knowed  how  much  I  feared 

Love,  fellers,  till  ternight.     How  much  truth  lies 

In  lovin' !  all  ther  wisdom  o'  ther  world 

Bides  in  man's  friendship.     Nothin*  counts  so  much 

As  fellership.     The  biggest  sea  as  hurled 

Itself  ag'in  ther  Scander  Shoals  can't  touch 

Th'  immartal  might  o'  lovin'.  .  .  .  Come  on  now,  b'ys, 

Let's  cap  this  everlutin'  light  o'  love, 

An'  git  ourselves  erquainted  wit'  ther  skies, 

Until  ther  Lard's  erlivin'  in  Ther  Cove." 

"Damned  if  I  don't  believe  them  fellers  mean 

What  they  has  said,"  cried  raptured  Johnny  Deal, 

As  he  felt  for  his  fiddle  in  the  green 

Wool  bag  that  held  it.     "Say,  yer  makes  me  feel 

Fine!" 

"Me,  too,  as  my  name's  Sam  Publicover !" 
The  poet  yelled,  as  he  clasped  hands  with  Johnny. 
"Come,  start  yer  tune,  b'y;  gif  us  'Jolly  Rover,' 
Er  let  us  haf  'Maxvelton's  Braes  is  Bonny.' ' 

"Come,  Johnny !"  Bill  called,  "Let's  us  have  the  fiddle, 
We  means  to  make  o*  music  one  more  beauty 

92 


Sent  to  the  world.    Most  everythin'  'sa  riddle, 

An'  it  ain't  easy  for  to  do  your  duty, 

Till  you  has  learned  the  law  o'  God  from  flowers, 

An'  sounds  o'  wind  on  waves  or  treetops  singin'; 

Life  is  most  always  hell,  until  the  hours 

Smells  like  the  grass  or  sounds  like  joy-bells  ringmV 

So  Johnny  Deal  stood  forth  alone  and  played. 
He  played  as  he  had  never  played  before. 
He  seemed  to  be  in  robes  of  sound  arrayed. 
Like  intermittent  falls  of  rain  that  roar 
On  house-roofs  with  the  wind  or  lull  to  weep 
Like  women  for  remembered  woes,  he  swept 
The  gamut  of  sensation ;  till  the  deep 
Answered  to  deep.     His  tapping  right  foot  kept 
Time  to  the  living  bow  and  vibrant  strings. 
The  Belle  was  full  of  faces  that  were  framed 
In  arches  of  tip-touching  colored  wings 
Above  a  swirl  of  folding  clouds  that  flamed. 


All  this  seems  now  so  very  far  away, 
And  few  will  feel  what  I  feel  as  I  write. 
I  only  know  that  soon  another  day 
Broke  on  The  Cove.    That  winter  every  night 
Found  all  the  Lottie's  crew  met  at  The  Belle 
To  hear  Bob  talk  of  Nature  and  of  man ; 
To  listen  while  Bill  Boram  stood  to  tell 
His  story  of  the  flowers.     The  rumor  ran 
That  Parson  Blaylock  turned  aside  to  see 

93 


What  went  on  in  his  house  of  Beelial; 
But  I  had  quarreled  with  him,  and  to  me, 
Home  was  not  home ;  and  so  I  heard  the  call 
Of  voices  in  my  veins  and  shipped  to  go 
North  on  a  cruise — mate  of  The  Flying  Scud. 
The  rumor  ran  that  he  was  vexed  to  know 
How  heresy  held  sway:     "Man  made  from  mud? 
Who  then  is  Christ  ?    I  tell  you,  Robert  Fox, 
Salvation  hangs  on'  Christ's  redeeming  cross. 
Man  fell  from  grace,  and  Adam's  error  blocks 
The  road  to  heaven.     There  is  eternal  loss 
For  souls  unless  they  have  been  justified 
By  Faith.     God  looks  on  mortal  man  in  wrath, 
When  man  pleads  hot  the  Victim  Crucified 
And  owns  that  nothing  in  his  hands  he  hath." 

Last  time  I  heard  from  home  they  said  that  Bill 

Holds  nearly  all  The  Cov'ers  in  his  hand; 

That  drink  and  revelry  no  longer  fill 

The  Lottie's  crew  with  lust.     I  understand 

That  Bill  and  George  and  Bob  have  organized 

A  reading  room  within  The  Belle  Mahone, 

Where  there  are  always  talks  and  improvised 

Music  from  Johnny's  fiddle.     All  alone, 

Poor  Kate  sits  at  her  window,  rails  and  sneers 

At  Bill  to  passers-by.    She  will  not  yield ; 

Her  wilful  soul  is  adamant,  appears 

Seldom  upon  the  road  beyond  her  field 

That  foams  in  June  with  white  and  wind-blown  daisies. 

She  Weasel  still  goes  in  her  rubber  boots, 


Clacking  from  door  to  dodrj  jxi.tj  jnd  Jor/,e  ;Ttai&f£  '  /; 
A  welcome  eyebrow  at  her  word.     Dried  roots 
Are  now  all  that  survive  her  thorns  of  scandal ; 
For  Conrad's  eyes  and  laughter  have  prevailed 
On  hatred  and  suspicion.     She  is  a  vandal- 
Lost  and  discounted  by  those  whom  she  flailed 
Hard  with  her  tongue.    Yet  I  suspect  that  she, 
Kate  and  the  Parson  and  the  few  who  hold 
Bill  crazy,  George  a  fool,  will  come  to  see 
What  I  have  found  through  thinking:  Smelted  gold 
Out  of  the  quartz  of  Nature  in  the  Christ 
Who  stands  at  red  door  of  the  heart  and  knocks 
What  time  the  lilacs  in  their  purple  mist 
Mark  April  from  the  month  of  hollyhocks. 


O  beauty  of  the  autumn  days  that  die, 
0  magic  of  the  wind  and  shout  of  seas, 
O  lifting  of  the  little  wings  that  fly, 
O  marvel  of  gay  blossoms  and  the  trees ! 
Join  with  the  miracle  of  human  hearts, 
The  tender  touching  of  all  friendly  hands, 
Until  the  figured  veil  of  Nature  parts 
To  show  how  near  to  flesh  the  spirit  stands. 
Come,  love  of  life,  and  lift  the  gate  that  bars 
Man  from  his  lost  dominion  of  all  things ; 
And  let  there  be  a  going  up  to  stars 
With  tumult  of  his  long  unfolded  wings. 


95 


My  VtotfV  fcnds,    ^!he\  polar-  night  is  breaking. 
What  do  you  think,  my  friend,  of  bad  Bill  Boram? 
To  me  this  Northern  sky  with  song  is  shaking — 
The  song  of  Christ :  "0  come,  let  us  adore  him  I" 


END 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


